The Clocks Go Back

The Clocks Go Back

The clocks fall backward,

and the day shrinks to a sigh,

light thins to a gray smear,

the hours crawl like old ghosts.

Morning arrives late,

soft and tired,

and evening comes too soon,

pulling the sun down early.

Nights stretch long and hollow,

each minute dragging its feet,

while the air tastes of cold waiting,

and the world feels smaller,

darker,

slower.

The streets are empty,

the trees bare,

and the clock ticks on,

a constant reminder

that warmth is borrowed,

and time itself has turned

against us.

Shadows gather in corners,

creeping along walls,

filling rooms with whispers

of what was bright.

The wind sighs through chimneys,

the rain drifts across the windows,

and I count each hour

as it drifts by like a weary traveler.

Even the heart feels heavier,

pulled by the slow turning of days,

as if life itself

is folding into the dark,

and all the small joys

fade into a muted gray.

We gain an hour of sleep,

but lose a stretch of light,

and the world leans inward,

folding its edges,

waiting for the spring that seems

far too distant.

And still, the clock ticks,

relentless,

echoing through the long, boring nights,

reminding me

that nothing stands still,

even when the world feels frozen

and time itself has turned cold.