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The Timeless Hour
Shadows spill from the clock’s edge,
its hands cradling silence like brittle leaves.
Each second, a moth—wingless, fleeting,
circling the dim flame of now.
The sky folds inward, creased by twilight’s palm,
where stars are scattered like shards of memory.
Midnight hums, its voice a river of whispers,
carving paths through what we’ve lost.
Time wears no face but speaks in fragments,
a ghost slipping between the cracks of thought.
It writes absence into the fabric of moments,
leaving echoes where presence once stood.
And yet, we run, barefoot on broken hours,
chasing eternity’s flickering trail,
grasping at horizons we’ll never hold.
©️Kenanie 1 reply
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