Clocks with No Hands

In the sugared breath of a twilight dream,
Time unfurls its petals, solemnly
Grasping the fabric of the yearning star,
A calendar weeps in silence, lost,
As shadows tango on the cusp of dawn.

Whispers of clocks, bathed in amber haze,
Swinging mute, echoing a profound emptiness,
Pulling tendrils of light from the wells of oblivion,
Unraveled moments, the heartbeat of absence.

O! What grace shrouded in the folds of stillness,
Ticking without purpose, measuring naught,
Dripping sensations, like honey-spun sorrow,
Arranging loneliness into serpentine rhythms,
Time, enthralled, yet unfurling unbidden.