Grandfather Clock

Calmly, he sat at the head of the table.
Hands interlocked in a Picasso savvy,
gazing upon time, the clock moves.

He grabs the pulp of the morning sheets.
They almost greet him accordingly.
Folded similarly, never rushed.
The pendulum swings again.

Rising, a face of resonance thinks aloud.
You try to absorb the aura, but it cant be
Faked, it must weather the test of time.