I find myself again a tinkerer,
Too tucked and pulled within such tight machines,
Forget each dragging worlds beyond,
The clock is dead beneath the clanks.

I wonder what to write about,
When my thinking now runs dry,
Like smoke wafting from a barrel's snout,
Like sizzling drops that bead after a fry,

A charming sight with all the visuals tells,
Nay, a lonely height without its depths,
I'll find them when the next day's felled.