Beloved timepiece, king of mechanical intricacy,
out of boredom, lust, I bowed to thee
to dissect your form in search of beauty.
Fault is mine to fail to see
your gaze at my immortality.
No heartbeat movement, 12 or 6,
No golden sword nor windowed vane,
leather fixtures, chrono tricks,
or marks upon a circle plane
Can tease the brain of past construction,
sans a sense of change.
Winding scroll of 4th dimension
amongst your gearbox of cog tension,
beyond your ritzy form and class
share with me our passing history,
And clean my future looking glass,
so I recall with less mystery.
A glimpse upon your shining face,
is special to my eye,
for in my head the present place,
gets organized inside.
I connect to thee, my art, my life,
the movement of your owner
to cherish change and fluid moments,
And gaze back when this time is over.
Timepiece of my precious time
breathe all my greed and charity
sense this passing life of mine
and bestow me immortality.
I originally wrote this poem about a watch I had bought as a memento that would pick my memory about Berlin in the years to come as I look back upon my time spent there. However, after mulling it over, I decided to sell the watch before I even left Berlin. I realized my memories had nothing to do with it, and the shiny lust of it was completely anathema to what I enjoyed about Berlin. My best memories are those of enjoying the present and embracing the lack of perfection in everyday human life, which was a major takeaway of my ~8 months spent living and working there. The purchase was a mistake, frankly, out of boredom or lust (as I mention in the poem), and my assumption that it would mean anything down the road is out of character for the Berlin experience, and more of a cultural pointer of credulous and soulless consumerism.