Time passes by on a paper clock,
the hands follow each other in a syncopated rhythm,
grasping for something
that they can’t reach.

A bird calls out on each ticking hour,
expecting a return call,
but it never comes.

A boy sits in a wooden chair,
staring up at the clock,
waiting for something to change.

He grows older as the clock’s hands continue chasing,
the paper yellows–curls,
and his voice deepens,
yet he never uses it above a whisper.

Another cry in the night
brings further silence,
The boy—now a man—sits,
waiting.

His stare bores into the fading clock—
right through the heart of time,
but it never stops ticking,

Ticking in time with the rushing blood in his head
and the tapping of his fingers.

He feels close,
close to the answer he’s seeking,
but it’s still too far away,
lingering out of reach.

“Time,” he calls out,
“please, I beg of you…”
but time remains silent,
the last of its species:
a breed that died out with nothing to answer it.

The man,
reaching the end of his life,
asks time once more,
“Wait,” in a hoarse whisper,
“I almost understand,
just give me a little more time.”

Time responds,
understanding him but knowing it’s too late,
“I’m sorry,
but I can’t wait any longer…”