The Carriage Clock The carriage clock,
Small, delicate,
Bold and brass,
White face,
With Roman Numerals,
Lain in wait,
Forgotten, dirty,
And damaged,
No longer,
Loved and cared for.
Now saved from
An unknown fate,
By a sentimental memory,
Of the man who owned,
And loved it.
Now polished, and wound,
By act of curiosity,
It sits proudly,
On a mantle,
Ticking in perfect time.
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