Clocks.

We are turned by the
keys stuck in our backs that move
the cogs that move the world.
Swirling cogs, like clockwork,
steadfast with character.
A glowing sun of hearts coalesced
in pools of sweat, of perspiring the inspired.
Eyes the size of distant moons,
compasses to dreams
chugging engines; steam.
Matriarch: forest guides for our purist guise.
Awaiting the bloom, the ebb and flow
of time.
To ravish the old weathered ravines,
where countless men lay awake.
In dreams, caught up in clouds,
where no voice, let alone hers,
can reach.
Nevermind, the twinkle of eyes,
everglade diamonds,
coalesce, in time,
into dreams.