The Clockmaker's Lament

In a village lost beyond the trees,
Where wind sang low and time would freeze,
There lived a man with silvered hands,
Who built the clocks with trembling plans.

His house was filled with ticking ghosts,
Each whispering what he feared the most—
The hours he'd carved, then let slip by,
The love he left to calcify.

He forged each cog with aching grace,
While shadows gathered 'round his face.
No one came to wind his days,
He lived alone, in winding haze.

At dusk, he'd light a single flame,
And whisper once her vanished name.
A girl who danced where time stood still—
A ghost he couldn't fix or will.

He made her watch with inlaid gold,
It never ticked, it never told.
A frozen hour behind the glass,
Where every second failed to pass.

They say she died at twenty-three,
And time, since then, refused to be.
He locked his clocks behind a door,
And turned their faces to the floor.

The village children, brave and bored,
Once dared to knock, to touch the hoard.
He let them in, then let them see—
A thousand clocks that would not flee.

But in that room, one thing was clear—
Not one ticked loud enough to hear.
They beat like hearts that had grown still,
Or mouths that whispered against will.

Then one day, he was simply gone.
No fire lit, no curtains drawn.
But every clock began to chime—
All struck the hour: the end of time.

Now travelers claim they hear the song,
Of ticking where it don't belong.
A haunted rhythm in the air,
Of love, and loss, and disrepair.

Author's Note:
This poem is about obsession, regret, and the quiet terror of time misused. Perfect for readers who love emotional weight, ghost stories, and lyrical storytelling.

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