Clockwork

Eileen E. Slade

It's running like clockwork,
it's running so true.
Everyone in place,
we all have a job to do.
It's running like clockwork,
everything is the same,
everyone has the same face,
so there's no need for names.
We're running like clockwork,
we're in a routine,
everyone's in place,
in the world's great machine.
We have no room for color,
It's too complex and diverse.
If we don't live in gray,
it may change the whole universe.
So let the clock run,
let the methodical ticking begin,
How smoothly we run,
What a perfect world we live in!
But wait. . there's a kink in the clockwork!
One part won't conform!
The outcast, the traitor!
The clock won't perform.
Everyone turns to stare
at the rebellious, treasonous child.
Somehow she looks different,
a little more independent, perhaps a little wild.
Her strong clear voice
resounds through the world.
How can such things come
from such a little girl?
"I have the freedom to choose,
and the freedom to speak.
I choose not to be the same,
for your generalities make me weak."
Her voice gets softer,
"I want to be me, I want my own dreams,
not to be assigned to a part,
not to be a wretched machine."
Each word that she says
begins to inflame
the spirits and souls
of the people without names.
As the child looks over,
the crowd starts to change.
There's color in their faces.
Now they have names.
As every new person
reaches into their heart,
uniformity is destroyed,
and the clock falls apart.