Please forgive the teardrops
And the blood that runs from my ever beating heart
Onto the smashed glass of the clock face;
That old and ornate antique in the corner
That ticks away to the blinking of eyes
Never a tock out of place.
The cogs run smoothly - as time must -
Ignoring the cracks in the glass
And the broken souls smeared over the oak;
Forget that they are there waiting
For their 'better halves' to return
Just leave them there in innocence to choke.
The years of neglect have not destroyed the glory
Of the elaborately carved hands
That always point where is right, do what is right;
Despite the better judgement from the heart
Of the clock's internal workings
The sorrowful beating becomes trite.

Our timeless love cannot be captured in life's cage
For no man can die of love, except on stage.

A/N: The last line I took from 'Mansfield Park', that is Jane Austen's, not mine. This was written past midnight and unedited so no flames please.