The Home Where I No Longer Live

The clock was born in darkened womb, a whisper carved from silence’ tomb. Its breath was light, a silver chime, a ripple through the throat of time. Soft as dawn on shivering leaves, it spun its hands through fate’s white sleeves, and there it stood, its face aglow, a god of sand, a lord of flow. Oh, how the minutes learned to run, like children drunk upon the sun. They chased the wind, they sang, they swayed, they burned with light that would not fade. But time, a thief with a polished grin, unraveled youth from tender skin, and laughter fell in echoes deep, to hollow halls where shadows sleep. The weight grew clotted in aging hands, a solemn stone, in shifting sands. The days became a nameless throng, a hymn-less march, a faded song. Love was a house of brittle beams, built upon bones of broken dreams. We ran, we reached, we swore, we bled, but time had other plans for us instead. The mirrors cracked, the frames decayed, the summer sky turned torn and frayed. Footsteps carved in yesterday, washed by waters swept away. Once, the bones were iron-wrought, now they wane with hollow thought. A quivering lip, a faltering breath, a love note left in the arms of death. And when the final breath is drawn, and all the clocks are pale and gone, when stars have blinked their last goodnight, and time is veiled in wordless white… Will echoes of me linger? Will we know where all the vanished moments go? Or are we only ripples cast, a sigh within the mouth of past?