Time's Trickster

This clock on the wall is a joke with no punch,

its hands frozen tight, stuck in dismay.

Twice it tells time, like a strange, hollow hunch,

while hours trickle past in a hazy ballet.

I sit in the dark, contemplating the hands,

a cracked glass that mirrors my broken resolve.

Each tick feels like gravel, unsettling my plans,

as if time knows the secrets I can’t solve.

It whispers reminders of moments I missed,

how fleeting the past is, and still it won’t budge,

yet I turn it to glance, caught up in the mist—

a clock that can’t keep pace is one I can’t judge.