The Clockmaker's Dream

Beneath a moon painted with laughter's gleam,

The clockmaker slumbers, lost in a time machine.

His workshop transforms, gears twist and churn,

Melting into landscapes where dreams are born.

Tick-tock tales unfold, whispered by cogs,

Of clockwork butterflies with wings of fog.

A pendulum swings, casting shadows long,

Where minutes morph into a mournful song.

He chases a rabbit, white fur like snow,

Through forests of clock faces, where seconds flow.

His laughter echoes, bouncing off chimes,

As gears morph into smiles, erasing times.

Stars spin on wheels, constellations shift,

Melting into stories, where logic gets adrift.

He dances with clouds, their cotton wool embrace,

Lost in a waltz where moments interlace.

But dawn's cold fingers touch the workshop pane,

Waking the clockmaker, back to sunlit reign.

He opens his eyes, the dream fades away,

Yet a whisper of magic lingers in the day.

For within the tick-tock, a secret lies,

Where clockwork dreams spin beneath moonlit skies.

And though the workshop stands, unchanged and true,

The clockmaker holds a key, to dreams anew.