In the age of forgotten clocks
where time lies supine, languid
the tick-tock of apathy
sings a satirical dirge
whispering through the empty streets.
Remember when deadlines danced,
like marionettes with severed strings,
in the theater of obligations?
Chronicles penned in glyphs of procrastination.
How they laughed—the clocks—
their laughter a melancholic echo,
a reminder of nostalgic urgency.
In the end, all clocks are poets,
scribbling verses in the sand,
verses washed away by unseen tides.
Here lies the shadow of a digital empire
counting milliseconds like grains of sand
in a hollow hourglass.
Automation’s child, wept and forgotten,
in the cradle of silicon dreams.
Yet, the ironies persist,
ticking away in ceaseless rhythm,
a lullaby for the insomniac soul.