My face to your window
Presses for home, against
Ancient time my heart grinds,
To bleeding clocks I am machine
But to your panes I am half-man,
A cog, a needle, a mind of mine
Can be no comfort to your skin,
A flesh so tender to my breath
Can be no journey’s rest,
Your hollow eyes laced in tears
Sing by the graveyard of my years
And should I stop to wait my days,
Shut your lids on my coffin door.
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