The Clock

In the heart of a house long abandoned,
Where the wind whispered dirges through cracked windows,
And the moonlight painted fractured shadows on the walls,
A clock ticked.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
Its rhythm filled the void,
A steady cadence in a place
Where time had ceased to matter.

Once, this house had been alive.
Laughter spilled from the kitchen,
Echoing up the staircase like a melody.
Feet danced across its creaking floors,
And the air was warm with the scent of bread,
Of candles, of life.

But life is fleeting,
And time, indifferent.
The family scattered, leaves in a storm,
Leaving behind only the shell of their existence-
And the clock.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.
It was not silent.
Its voice steady, insistent, relentless.
Each tick a whisper in the void,
A soft reminder of time passing,
Even when no one was left to notice.

Its face, smudged with grime,
Reflected only loneliness.
Its hands dragged themselves in circles,
Marking hours without meaning.
It was a prisoner of its purpose,
Bound to move forward,
Though nothing awaited it at the end.

The house sagged under its emptiness.
Walls brittle with despair,
Furniture draped in shrouds of dust.
Even the air hung heavy,
Mourning the absence of voices
That once filled its spaces.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

The clock could not stop.
It felt the silence pressing down,
An oppressive shroud
Smothering its steady beat.
It could not cry out.
It could only tick-
A heartbeat without a body,
A song with no one to listen.

In its solitude, the clock remembered:
A woman winding its gears,
Humming a song no one else knew.
A child tracing its face,
Small, sticky fingers touching Roman numerals.
Voices calling,
Footsteps rushing past.
The warmth of life.

But memory is a cruel companion.
It offered no comfort,
Only the ache of absence.
What once was
Would never be again.

If the clock had a heart, it would shatter.
If it had tears, they would rust its gears.
But it had only its ticking,
Each second falling like a stone into the abyss.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

It ticked for the house,
For ghosts lingering in its halls.
It ticked for the world outside,
Unaware of its existence.
It ticked for itself,
A desperate plea to the void:
I am still here.

But the void does not answer.
The house does not stir.
The world does not remember.

And so, the clock ticks on.
A monument to loneliness,
A reflection of souls bound to move forward,
Each step heavier than the last.

It ticks for those who wake in the quiet of night,
Feeling the weight of their own existence.
It ticks for the ones who smile in daylight,
Hiding the shadows in their hearts.
It ticks for the forgotten,
The ones who scream into the silence
And hear nothing but echoes.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

In its rhythm lies a fragile hope:
That even in the deepest loneliness,
Even in the darkest despair,
There is still motion.
There is still time.
And perhaps,
One day,
Someone will hear its ticking again.

Until then, it will keep going.
Not out of hope,
But because it must.
Because even in the absence of purpose,
It cannot stop.