Torsion Spring

Suddenly, my skin turned to glass,
From my feet to my legs
Without explanation
And then all the upper parts.
A passerby stopped in shock,
Others congregating gasped,
To see the turning organs
With their countless clockwork arts;
Middle mainspring moving
Shaped like metal hearts,
Stomach digesting porridge oats,
Piezoelectrical charge.
The carnival crowds were swelling,
Hawkers had my image selling,
(Clearly without my permission),
Using smartphone printed photographs.
From capillaries to aorta,
The bloods which made my daughter,
I felt alone as lone can be;
They peered into my structures,
Decorations for a mantelshelf,
A touring curiosity
Though some denounced monstrosities
Seen in their heathen oscillating piece.
They wound me up when I would cease,
Encased within a brassy hood,
Refused to share with me the key,
But kept me polished and often greased.
When the master horologist descended
He had the crowds disband,
Then put me before an awful mirror
To see how self-sabotaging wreaked,
In my visage a glass-encrusted hand.
I spotted a hernia frozen,
I caught an ancient haemorrhage,
Though I thought where the nerves had broken
Could be better with a beverage.
I tried to speak, but my silica lips
Were motionless and cold;
My host said nothing could enter
With nothing to leak but chimes of old
And the stuff of Time itself.
The townsfolk crafted a pedestal
Where I stood for five hundred years,
Until the earthquake of ’65
When the whole world disappeared.

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