Each tick, a reminder of passing time,
Each tock, a whisper of moments gone by.
The broken clock sits upon the shelf,
Its hands frozen in eternal rest.
Once it resonated with purpose,
Guiding us through the day and night,
A constant companion in our lives,
Ticking away the hours with precision.
But now its gears have come undone,
Its voice silenced, forever obscured.
The hands no longer trace the hours,
No longer chase the fleeting minutes.
Each face bears the cracks of wear,
Etched with the weight of countless years.
Its mechanism stripped of vitality,
A relic of a forgotten era.
Memories tied to the hands that moved,
Laughter and tears woven in its fabric.
The tick, the tock, the rhythm of life,
Now echoes only in distant reverie.
Yet amidst the stillness, a whisper remains,
A faint echo of the clock’s fading pulse.
The broken clock, a silent sentinel,
Guarding memories, past and present.
For even in stillness, it holds our story,
Capturing the fragments of our journeys,
Reminding us that time, though fragile,
Leaves indelible marks upon our hearts.
So let the broken clock be a testament,
To the fleeting nature of our existence,
To the beauty and fragility of each passing moment,
And the memories they leave behind.