The Stopped Clock

The pendulum halts mid-breath,

a brass heart caught between ticks.

Hands freeze at the hour of departure—

no chime to mourn, no bell to bless.

The oak case exhales dust of centuries;

gears lock like teeth in a final sigh.

Silence pools where seconds once marched,

a lacquered stillness heavier than sound.

Family gathers, fingers on the key,

turning the wheel backward one last notch—

not to rewind the life, but to unhook

time from its relentless hinge.

Outside, the world keeps coughing forward,

clocks in kitchens, wrists, and phones

insisting on tomorrow. Inside,

the grandfather stands mute, a tall witness

refusing to count what cannot be reclaimed.

Years later, a child will wind it again,

the pendulum swinging like a slow pulse

resuming its ancient argument with gravity.

But for now, the room holds its breath,

and the clock—faithful, obedient—

agrees to die with the one it served.