Where are the rusted keys that wind these crooked clocks
Where time lies stalled in pools of solder cooling
And tepid waters rise to overflow these worried locks?
Who times these tides of plankton that ebb your eyelid shore
And overflow to traverse your cheek describing
A platinum arc that crowns slo-mo in dusty parquet floor?
What wisdom lies in teardrops teeming with galaxies of thought
Myriad objections, obscure and off-the-wall
Declaring null the gospel saints you wish you'd never bought?
Why cast oblique reference to that second-hand for hours
Whisper 'wait' then holler "all aboard"
When bound for heights but hellbound sent, equipped with earthly powers