Murmurs of Clockwise Ingenuity

Beneath the creeping ivy's whisper, where moments evaporate, ancient stones lean towards twilight's specter.
The sundial speaks in riddles, a clock without hands,
tracing darkness with light's reluctance.
We carve silence into echoes, while the obedient sun mocks our futile ascendance.

Shifting shadows reveal shapes of forgotten beings,
their murmured pleas entwined in the songs of the rusting winds.
Ingenuity, in its clockwise dance,
births labyrinths of despair beneath every tick.
We become cogs, spiraling inward,
embraced by the warmth of an absent dawn.