A CLOCK WITHOUT A SOUND
The day goes by, the night stands still.
An hour slips past; a minute instant.
How muffled echoes murmur
From the tempest existing within.
Yearning for a trace
Replaced by a shifting phase
Where pieces are found
In the absence of a rhythm.
Stagnancy is a malignancy beyond a word,
Where the pendulum hangs dust-laced,
And the clock strikes one.
Suspended is the air
A frozen heir.
Tick tock and chimes,
Dial, quartz, and gears.
Calibration is blurry.
Lodged are the springs.
It’s a timepiece that grieves time,
With its second hand unwound.
Why does this moment wear the same face?
Like a heartbeat without a body
Or a clock without a sound.
