I am the ancient clock, quietly spiraling in the attic's dust,
whispering secrets of forgotten minutes—
acorns and shadows, I keep their tales locked in
the rusted gears of my melancholy tick-tock.
Beneath shawls of violet, the mirror rests, my secrets
are reflections of reflections, truths bending like
ghosts in moonlit tales, hiding behind glass mist
waiting to divulge their double lives.
Etched along the chair legs, I speak my wooden truths—
rain kisses and summer sighs wrote tales
into my fibers, unspoken love letters etched
deep in the echoes of their silent embrace.