Clock Poem

Clocks don’t speak, but still they say,
All the things that slip away,
Moments folded, neat and small,
Tucked inside each ticking call.

Hands that circle, slow and sure,
Mark the things we can’t secure:
A morning gone, a fading light,
A heartbeat deep into the night.

Yet in their ticking, soft and low,
They bless the time they help us know.
Not to trap it, just to see
How precious fleeting time can be.