A forlorn gear only murmuring rust, yet its stink carries ancient burdens.
I hold regrets which refuse to rust, cursed to confess every tick tock silence lest my father axle, scavenged from the Himalayan Shrine, forgets his own lubricated sins.
The insides of knicked desk drawer tell tales of unlettered dear marigolds.
They once sheltered correspondences unfolded, scents unheard, whispers dying on tangles of broken ink.
And do hall treetop clocks need to wander too?
They veer upwards, downplay deputy chimes but secrets spin torrent cracked glasses, so tempest may capture freedom onceengeled.
Further stories await:
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