There is a real fear

Buried deep in time

Where should be the heart

Is the tick of a clock

A miniscule sound

A blacksmith banging hot steal

Stone on stone

To onward drone

As rooms become right angled

Guts entangled

Controlled by four lines and six faces

The lines of a square and the faces of a cube

Dividing our world into equal part

12 pieces that never stop nor start

Just tock and tick, not slow nor quick

Just stone on stone

An endless drone

Without feeling, sense and whole

Hearts grow brittle like coal

They burn hot very quick

But run out of time by the 24th tick

We are all trapped by a calendar

That has severed our pagan roots

For even there grows only 8 shoots

Where there should be 10

So we can hold hands with those we ken

Passing feelings from heart to heart

Is where the rhythm feels like art

The circle has an infinite number of lines

And can wrap around like curly vines

Like the strands of hair in space

Is how time does interlace.