Measuring Moments

Dust motes linger in sunbeams like dreams,

with a quiet tick-tock, the old stopwatch gleams.

It measures the seconds, the breaths we inhale,

a whisper of time in a fleeting exhale.

I found it today, beneath clothes long neglected,

a clock on the wall, where memories collected.

Each turn of the hand like a story we tell,

a snapshot of moments that seem to dwell.

Yet time plays a trick, always slipping away,

leaving whispers of echoes from yesterday.

In the chambers of memory, we grasp and we seek,

the ticking reminds me of moments unique.