You, with the enigmatic face,
viewing the world from behind your hands;
Baffling men with your endless double-tock;
Hiding your guile with mechanical precision.
You artfully pose as mankind's friend -
a chronicler of today.
But, you! You are a dead thing,
a vampire, feeding upon the human spirit.
An ancient scribe that has outlived his employer,
his company, his god.
Fool! Tabulating endless columns of numbers,
to measure the span from birth to death,
Crediting seconds, minutes and hours,
posting days, months, and years,
Filling your ledger with increments of eternity.

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