The Watchmaker’s Daughter

No one sees the ink spilled

On ebony tiles of the master bath

Yet black blood trickles in long clean cracks

And trails its way through shards of broken glass

No one sees little hands shift the little painted stool

To rise and stand before the oval portrait

Of a girl whose eyes are not yet full

Of the doomed impermanence fated

To the frail cartridges that store little souls

Only curious emerald vectors and stars

The color of clovers and baby bird hearts

And all the shades of the night moon’s rainbow halo

That carve a path to heaven through the clouds

The eyes that see everything

And nothing at all

And in the center, one single drop

Of the forgotten ink

Its ceaseless flood and fall

Is the watchmaker’s final clock

No one hears the song

Of the swing that sweeps beneath the willow

The breeze on berries’ cheeks

Or the puff of a caterpillar’s mushroom pillow

The yawn of the man who holds an empty feather quill

Or the shattering mirror fragments that now lay quiet and still

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