The clock face stares, a cold, black eye,
Unblinking, unyielding, as seconds fly.
A silent witness to the world's decay,
Each tick a beat of time's relentless sway.

Does it yearn for silence, a respite from the chime?
To escape the endless cycle, a prisoner of time?
Or does it find a twisted sort of glee,
In watching moments fade, for all eternity?

The hands they spin, a spectral dance macabre,
Whispering secrets of the future, dark and rare.
Each click a death knell, a mournful sigh,
As hopes and dreams beneath its gaze lie.

Within its gears, a chilling secret hides,
The knowledge of a world that slips and slides.
A clockwork heart, with no pulse to feel,
Only the cold, metallic beat, so real.

It sees the laughter, the tears that fall,
The fleeting moments, meant to stand so tall.
But time is relentless, a cruel, cold beast,
The clock just keeps on ticking, at our feast.

For in its silence, there's a chilling truth,
The clock is master, and we are its youth.
Doomed to fade beneath its somber gaze,
Consumed by time, in its relentless maze.

So as it ticks, and we forever yearn,
For a moment's pause, a fleeting return.
To a time before the clock began to sway,
We dance with shadows, in its haunting play.

#ClockContemplations


© matthewwwebster