Tick-tock goes the clock, around and around we go.
We all tick back and forth again with naught but dust to show.
But where to go? Where to go?
Another hour, another day; the long and short, the fast and slow.
Our hands are trapped in wood and glass; the universe in tow.
Still far to go. Far to go.
With trembling fingers, wind the gears, for stillness lies at end in wait.
A steady march will keep you true, though rust creeps just outside the gate.
We're almost there. Almost there.
