The Clockmaker's Corneas

Here are the spires of trees and pipes.
Where hopeless men hang sagging hats-
With bars on the windows, and doors
Stronger than the metal used to hunt them down.

Here are the choking, who wish of iron and dreams
Of clockmaker's eyes, gone for their dark fancies;
Somewhere time got swept away and missed the shadows
Picked them up along a dirtier tunnel than deserved.

Oh, and so the spires float past
On clouds of morphine and long forgotten pillow talk
What might have been and said, left in trees
And walls and everything is still wood.

Before a dreamer dons their hat and gloves
The twinkling mistakes, broken past a film of sleep
Must bleed them out and warm the sky red
That they may serve the poppies they held in indigo.