And he slowly trapped them,
Into glass bottles,
Like flies for his amusement,
Only this time, he wanted away from his everyday battles.
He felt better,
He cried no longer
And in His heart , he felt a kind of solace.
He went on with his job,
Slowly turning the Winds of a Clock,
That was old and Damp,
but working still.
He felt his insides,
And before he could know anything
he turned to stone,
He was now, nowhere near his own,
He was now, made of stone.
And the Smile that he usually wore,
Braced upon his face no more.