The Pulse of Dreams

The distant whisper of a secret clock,
that weaves threads of time through night’s folds,
timing dreams that departed, lost in silence.
Each tick, a memory fading into the air,
an echo of desires that the morning dissolves,
in a moment’s pause between past and abyss.
And in its breath, latency turns to stone,
freezing hopes that graze the eternal,
for even the fastest dreams have their own time.