The clock ticks,
As each second passes by.
A memory is said out loud
By the hands of the clock,
With metal gears
That rub against each other
With an ear-piercing screech.
A clock with wrinkled skin.
Who knows?
It might have lived centuries.
It might have lived eras.
Clocks can be restored,
Maybe even replaced.
Watches we throw
When they start to decay,
And iron that has no more blood to bleed.
Yet time itself
Never rusts.
Never gets replaced.
Only borrowed
By us, people,
To be used wisely
And to make the world a better place.
Time that has seen people
Take their first and last breath,
That has seen every side
And every possible outcome
Of each decision,
And every choice.
Clocks are made of time,
An endless loop,
And it ticks daily
To remind us
Of the weight we carry,
As we drown in oceans of sorrow.