In a town made of ticking and time-soaked brass,
Where seconds were stitched into panes of glass,
Lived a Dreamer who dozed with her thoughts afloat, In a bed made of feathers, on a cloud-built boat.
The moon wore goggles and tipped his hat, As the stars played harpstrings with a cosmic chat. “Wake,” said a voice like a breeze in bloom,
“A question awaits in the Clockwork Loom.”
She blinked through fog made of velvet cream, Awake but adrift in a honey-laced dream. The world she'd known was nowhere near— Only echoes of “why?” danced round her ear.
“Who winds the wind when the winds run still? Who sharpens the sun on the edge of a hill? What stitches the smile to the face of a child?
What tames the tempest when time runs wild?”
The voice came from gears that bloomed like flowers, Turning in towers that told the hours. A doorway opened in a prism of light, And she stepped through a ripple, kissed by night.
Her name? Forgotten. Her shape? A glow.
But her soul pulsed bright with the urge to know.
