The hands spin backwards through my mind, erasing moments left behind.
Each tick a whisper, soft, unkind, of days I cannot call or find.
The hours fold upon themselves, their echoes trapped in dusty shelves. I chase the past through empty rooms, a dance with shadows, silent tombs.
The sun moves slowly, the moon drifts near, its silver light both cold and clear.
The world rewinds, yet nothing stays, and I am lost within the maze.
Yet in the backwards-turning tide, a strange reflection cannot hide. The pain I bore, the tears I wept,
Are gifts the reversed clocks have kept.
For though the clocks run wrong, not right, they teach me how to hold the night.
The past returns, but not to stay – it guides me softly on my way.
