Whispers tread where clocks don’t chime,
A hush draped over thoughts of time.
It sips from the stream, unseen, unfelt,
Where yesterdays quietly melt.

No lock, no key, yet doors unhinge,
A breath, a blink — then comes the tinge.
Of something lost not known when missed,
A ghost of now, by shadows kissed.

Its fingers wear no weight or ring,
Yet pluck the thread from everything.
And we, unknowing, pay the fee,
For time collects in secrecy.