The Clockwork Man

He, the clockwork man,
of metal and spring,
was nothing more,
and nothing less;
with silver and tin,
in flora-esque design,
jutting out,
of his hollow left breast.
It was a key,
a large silver key.
[and with it, wound the springs]
that turned with them
the clicking and clacking
of machinery,
that moved the clockwork man.

Magnum Opus - the glory of creation -
was he, the clockwork man;
for he was the world,
and the world was one with him.
His metal skeletal frame
stood proud and tall,
bearing his head high above all
his dominance.
Clothed in flesh,
and supported by the toughest sinew,
he gazed upon the world
through his fine glass eyes;
glazing, reflective,
captured the world in his soul.

And he stood proudly,
firm and strong;
weathering the elements,
unbacked,
unmoved by the thought of
pain and suffering
(for he was by essense flesh,
and so felt the same sensations
as any man would.)
And he was hardened towards
all sensation, a numbness
one beheld in his glass eye.

But he was the world,
and the world was one with him.
O, what a small world
then was he.
And whilst beholding the dearth
of many a people,
with his hand grasped firmly,
the essence of his clockwork life
- his large silver key,
his right wrist flicked several times,
and he walked away into the world.