Tick-tock, tick-tock, the hands sweep, slow and grand,
Echoes in brass, the hourglass of time,
Each second a sonnet, each minute a memory,
A pendulum sways with the weight of all things,
A whispered sigh, the rhythm of fate.

Tick-tick, tick-tick, the seconds fly,
A thousand moments, one fleeting chime,
The wood creaks softly, a song to the past,
Time, both heavy and light, spins ever last.

Tick-tick, tick-tick, a muted hum,
The dance of the hands, a battle won,
Through the quiet of night, and the light of day,
We march to the beat, come what may.

Tick, tick, a whisper,
A pulse, a pause,
We chase after moments,
Only to lose them.

Tick.

        Tock.

Tick…