On the wall, it hangs so still,
A ticking voice, a peaceful will.
With each second, delicate and slow,
It denotes the time, both high and low.
Its hands clear round, both strong and slight,
In morning sun and pale twilight.
An observer to life’s consistent race,
However frozen firm, it holds its place.
It’s seen the chuckling, felt the tears,
The short lived youth, the developing years.
It watched us love, it watched us part,
It holds our lives inside its heart.
Quiet, yet it tells a story,
Of minutes splendid and shadows pale.
A darling’s touch, a kid’s most memorable word,
The peaceful things that went unheard.
Its face is plain, its motivation clear,
To carry on many years.
However in its quiet lies a melody,
Of life, of misfortune, of continuing on.
At the point when hands stop still in conclusive rest,
What’s more, shadows fall upon its chest,
The clock stays, with stories turned —
Of time that elapsed, of life started.
However faces blur and voices stop,
It holds every memory in harmony.
A quiet manager of past times,
The clock ticks on, however time sneaks past.
Comments