The Slumbering Clockwork

Brass teeth grind against the slow decay of an untethered hour, catching the dust that falls like fine snow in the shaft of light.

A pendulum swings with a heavy gait, forgetting the rhythm it was built to keep, pulling the air into small, torn breaths while the hands remain still on the glass.

We wait for the final strike to wake the dormant springs, but only the rust hums its quiet tune, a patient master of the winding key.