In the twilight of forgotten echoes,
where darkling whispers adhere,
there resides the forgotten clock,
its hands like shadows entombed in time's abyss.
Beneath the gnarled oak lies the once whispered innocence,
entwined amid the spectral illusion of remnant yesterdays.
Cryptic inscriptions line the stony veneer,
shielding their secrets
in a lock without a key.
Voices whisper beyond: "A shrouded path,
illusions dance where shadows ignite,
realms drift upon forgotten winds,
specters of whispers echoing in silence."
Time unfurls, yet holds captive,
The clock's whisper beneath others' din,
a tapestry woven in darkness and light,
lingering at the edges of mortal comprehension.