poem (by me): six day clock, wound once a week

I am a clockwork engine
winding down each slow second,
clicking, ticking toward the last
instant at which all things will
and leave me standing there: still,
silent, waiting for someone
to turn my key again and
bring me
back to
Religious imagery, yes.

I'm having fun with this poetry stuff, although I must admit that I still haven't gotten all the way through The Ode Less Traveled. I do intend to. It just hasn't happened quite yet. In the meantime, I guess I'll just keep doing this free-form stuff, which is appallingly fun. :D