Alice and the Turning Gears
The air was thick with copper gleam,
A hiss, a hum, a waking dream.
Through gears that whispered, pipes that sung,
Brave Alice stepped where clocks were young.
Her apron caught the lantern light,
A beacon through mechanical night.
Her gloves were oiled, her courage wound,
Each heartbeat made a ticking sound.
The rabbit now was made of brass,
His ticking feet clicked on the glass.
“Follow,” he said, with eyes that spun,
“For tea is served when time’s undone.”
Through piston clouds and towers of steam,
She chased the echoes of a dream.
Each valve a thought, each cog a rhyme,
Each turn a twist of tangled time.
And when she paused, her goggles shone,
Reflecting worlds she’d never known.
“Perhaps,” she mused, “I’m not the same’
For dreams and gears both play the game.”
So still she walks through time’s machine,
Between the rust and silver sheen.
Her name a whisper, soft and clear’
Alice, the girl who turned the gear.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 