The Clock Burns
The hands of the clock do not tick,
they tremble.
Every second feels like a warning,
a drumbeat pulling us closer
to something we pretend not to see.
The air is heavy with omens.
The sky bleeds strange colors at dusk,
as if it knows
our arrogance has reached its peak.
We build towers higher,
we burn the ground hotter,
we pray to machines
and call it progress.
But deep down,
we hear it,
the grinding of gears behind the universe,
the slow unraveling
of a world stretched too thin.
This is the dark side of belief:
when prophecy becomes memory,
when chaos is not coming,
but already here.
And yet,
there is still a choice.
To turn away from the fire
or walk straight into it.
To keep our heads bowed in sleep
or lift them,
eyes open,
hearts braced,
ready to face the storm we made.
The clock burns.
The shadows lengthen.
And in this fragile moment,
I wonder,
are we doomed,
or are we finally awake?
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