In the attic I find the clock

In the attic, I find the clock,

ticking days into memories, but now

it's as still as the air thick with dust,

hands frozen at six, like a photograph

of a moment paused, aching to breathe.

A gift once bright with laughter and stories,

years swallowed in silence, and I’m left

with echoes of what once was—

this clock, a vessel, now empty,

weighty in my hands, heavy with the still,

reminding me time is both friend and foe.