In a quiet room sits a clock with no hands,
ticking still, though no one understands.
It counts not hours, nor minutes, nor days,
but the moments we lose in invisible ways.
A child’s laugh stored in the hollow of night,
a lover’s sigh buried under dim candlelight,
the prayer you whispered when no one could hear,
the silence that spoke louder than fear.
We chase seconds as if they were gold,
but forget that eternity cannot be sold.
Time is a thief, yet also a guide,
it teaches us what we cannot hide.
So when you see a clock with no face,
remember life is not a race.
The heart is the only true keeper of time—
and its rhythm is the closest thing to divine.
Sep 21, 2025
Sep 21, 2025 at 5:00 AM UTC
In a quiet room sits a clock with no hands,
ticking still, though no one understands.
It counts not hours, nor minutes, nor days,
but the moments we lose in invisible ways.
A child’s laugh stored in the hollow of night,
a lover’s sigh buried under dim candlelight,
the prayer you whispered when no one could hear,
the silence that spoke louder than fear.
We chase seconds as if they were gold,
but forget that eternity cannot be sold.
Time is a thief, yet also a guide,
it teaches us what we cannot hide.
So when you see a clock with no face,
remember life is not a race.
The heart is the only true keeper of time—
and its rhythm is the closest thing to divine.
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