Nothing rings quite true,
like a dog's lick of the hand.
A clocks tick of brass moving hands.
Feels like standing on a wrong moving escalator.
Life is simply sublime time in truth.
Dear Mable,
Grand father calls to you.
To wind, and oil, the gears,
that grind through the sands of the day.
It rings at a time, twelve thunderous, ear splitting gongs, Grandfather.
A deafening, bitter, and sweet end to it all.
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