The timesmith wears worn brown boots with frayed yellow laces
Spectacles slip slightly on his aging face
The creases of his eyes dark with the shadows of sleepless nights
But still he works diligently,
Wiping his calloused hands on his tattered, faded jeans.
In suffocating silence and thick, heavy air
Brass key in hand, he begins to wind and crank
Sweat beading and dripping from his wrinkled forehead.
The onlookers stare with gaping, desperate eyes
Imploring him to work faster as the mechanical pieces steadily grind.
The timesmith glances up at their familiar faces,
Many years of experience revealing that this may be the last time
He will wind the dials of this particular clock.
As he finishes his task, relief rushes into the room
Fearful, tight lips turn upwards in smiles.
He wipes his brow,
Shuts the front door gently as he slips out
And alone beneath a ceiling of beautiful stars,
The timesmith glances at his watch.