Click.

It's a start, an end. A place beyond the furrowed bend,

where things come together and fall apart.

Click.

Are we picking up the pieces? No.

Nothing is where it's supposed to go.

The ice is cracked. The glass is snow.

Melt it down. Let it refreeze.

We'll get another click from these.

Phonecian work, in modern-day,

in the ground this salt will stay.

A light comes on and one goes off.

A bulb clicks on,

the other coughs.

Keep it off. That hope is prey.

We'll switch it on another day.

How I know? I'm not quite sure.

My method's old, the tomes, impure.

But listen now,

And listen quick.

And somehow maybe,

some will stick.

Your mind is whole, so keep it slick.

Eventually, it all will click.