Time doesn’t speak

it just ticks and turns,

burns through days like pages

no one remembers writing.

We chase the hands around the dial

as if they’ll lead us somewhere real.

But all I’ve found are footprints

circling the same unanswered question.

The sky never tells you what it knows

it just hangs there, patient,

watching your questions float

like smoke that won’t settle.

I asked the sun what it meant to burn forever,

but it only stared back,

silent and indifferent

to my need for a reason.

I thought love would be the answer

a steady light in the fog

but even that shifts,

distorts in the rearview mirror.

People come with their own clocks

and none of them tick in sync.

You hold on too tight,

and time slips through anyway.

"You are not the watcher of time...

You are what it watches."

Maybe the meaning was never meant to be found

just felt

in the breath between thoughts,

the pause before the note,

the glance that says more than the words ever could.

Maybe we keep asking

so we don’t hear the answer:

That there is no answer,

and that’s the point.

It isn’t what the clock says...

It’s what you were doing

when it said it.

It isn’t what the clock says...

It’s what you were doing

when it said it.