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.