This battered clock refuses now to chime,
I think it does it solely out of spite,
It's tears forever trapped in stolen time,
It chimes so loud and forlorn late at night.
Like some forgotten child upon the street,
That skips around so active after dark,
When morning comes she'll slowly drag her feet,
And silently lie weeping in the park.
This battered clock has served its time in silence,
In hope that it will fire up a spark,
Of silent indignation for the lost ones,
To noisily shine through the dooming dark.
I am both clock and child combined,
Silent fighter for my freedom,
A prophet of forgotten dreams,
In this worn out dusty kingdom.