Clockwork, the mystery of time,
What makes a tick and a tock?
A church marked by grief entwined,
And facts of that behind this keyless lock?

Intelligence, the epitome of brilliance,
Discounting truth unto bliss.
Forging nickels where there’s no cents,
And this is never amiss?

Depression, the derivative of laziness comes,
Confusing peace as a satisfied idleness.
Equating joys as effortless perfections,
In such a flawed world of incongruousness.
Clockwork that force that chains us weak.

Intelligence that thought that grows a weed.
Depression that feeling which makes us reek.
Love that which from all things feed.
And I say it again,
The hearts of men,
Unlike some rocks,
Are soft and of sin,
But love now knocks. So let it talk.

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