Scented Horizon

The metal breaks, yet it breathes.
Between the cracks remains a scent of salt and iron.
Every gear holds a note of moon.
Time, broken, remains suspended in silence.
From the dial’s hole grows a horizon.
It stretches like a tongue of thin wind.
The hands, still, listen for the dawn that does not arrive.
Air fills with the scent that advances.
This odor is not memory; it is tomorrow’s sprout.
Every breath shifts hours and confines the sea.
The edge of the horizon becomes breath and light.
In the broken shell, a promise of light awakens.
When the clock remains only a skeleton, the scent persists.
Time learns to grow within us.
The horizon, within us, widens and becomes home.
We move in the fragrance that comes from the future.