The clock does not whisper; it strikes like a drum,
Each tick a reminder of what’s yet to come.
Second slip shadows, they twist and they glide,
The sands of the hourglass will not abide.

The morning is gold, but the evening turns gray,
As moments unspoken are stolen away.
The sun holds no grudge as it dips from the sky,
For time does not falter, it does not ask why.

A heartbeat, a breath-then a memory fades,
The past becomes ink on forgotten parades.
You reach for tomorrow, but here’s the refrain:
The clock never stops, and it whispers “Too late.”

So dance while you’re able, burn bright in your prime.
For the clock is a thief and it covets your time.
Each tick is a pulse, each chime is a warning-
A day slips away, and it won’t see the morning.

The hours are fleeting, their wings are unseen,
And time won’t return to where you have been.
Its hands keep their grip, and they never let go,
For times gentle ticking is life’s quiet foe.

-Andrew Whyte