Clock-Work Life

There is still clamor amidst the silence,
Heavens machinery grinding out the hours,
Organizing all the many clock-work lives of men.
Sad these tiny tin men,
Never beginning to live, but still droning along,
Eager to march as all the rest.
Cogs in the clock-work of heaven,
Each pushing, pulling against the others,
Sacrificed individuals set to toil as mere mechanisms,
All driving toward some strange goal,
Some distant fantasy of Eden obscured by clouds,
How content they seem,
These blind men to be lead to the gallows,
Each to die in his turn,
Each to live, each to love,
As all the rest,
Content to carry on their clock-work existence,
Drowning out the silence,
With the deafening sound of heavens gears.