The clock does not beg for mercy,
it does not weep, it does not wait.
It carves its mark with steady fingers,
seals the doors and locks the gate.

Once, the summers felt unending,
once, my hands were small and free.
Now the wind hums distant warnings,
pulling petals from the tree.

Faces blur like water ripples,
names slip through like autumn air.
All I love will turn to memory,
and time will never learn to care.