The clock ticks in sorrow,
its metal heart a prisoner
of time's relentless march.

Underneath the fabric seams,
a needle harbors dreams
of silken skies away from hands.

Beneath the tarnished rail,
an old shoe whispers tales
of steps forgotten, buried deep in dust.

The desk, a stoic sage,
carries the stain of secrets,
inked in midnight's confessions.

Echoes of rubber wheels,
sing laments of void-bound journeys,
Sleights of space and tangled static.