The Clockwork King
With cobwebbed thoughts and iron tongue
He claims his quicksand throne
A thousand screeching larks afloat
Unheard by ears of stone
His head affixed with silver suns
To serve as means of sight
But all that lies beyond the glow
Is blocked by blinding light

Rheumatic rusted finger joints
Sealed taut by dormancy
His warped and melted hands of steel
Fused to a lockless key
If only he had turned his gears
With remnants of pride left
But drifting gusts of petrichor
Deposed him with a breath