The Clock's Soul

The clock’s hands never rest, each movement sharp, relentless. Behind each tick, a thousand moments slip away— its soul thrumming between seconds. The gears grind, but the world spins unaware, unfeeling, indifferent. When the wheel stops, when the pulse fades, the clock dies, its breath swallowed by silence. No longer wound, its soul extinguished— a life once turning, forgotten in the quiet.