Secret Hours

In the clock’s secret diary there is a bent line,
where weary hands learn to forget the score,
and time finds shelter in the folds of dust.
The ticks of the day whisper secrets bright,
the pendulum holds breath like one who ceased to speak,
the seconds unravel, small thieves who hide the key.
Each page is a grain of hour, a word that has been scored,
when the belfry dreams, the clocks write in script,
and trade the sound for letters seeking hands.
And should they all forget their beating, a new rhythm starts,
the city hears the breathing of unmeasured things,
and the diary closes with a brief mark, a silent smile.