In the heart of a village, where shadows creep,
Lies a tale of a clock that whispers in sleep.
With hands of brass and a face of stone,
It ticks in a language that chills to the bone.
The elders would warn, “Do not stay near,
When midnight strikes, you’ll vanish, my dear.”
But a curious man, with courage unbowed,
Sought the truth of this clock so proud.
He entered the tower at twilight’s descent,
Through a door that groaned and a stairway bent.
Dust danced thick in the lantern’s gleam,
While whispers rose like a fevered dream.
“Tick-tock, tick-tock,” the clock would sing,
“Your time is nigh; heed the pendulum’s swing.”
Its gears turned slow, yet each felt near,
As seconds dripped like beads of fear.
At the stroke of twelve, the room grew still,
The air like ice, the man felt ill.
From the face of the clock, a shadow unfurled,
A specter of time from another world.
“Who dares disturb the keeper of fate?
You’ve come too soon, or far too late.”
The figure spoke with a voice of decay,
Its hollow eyes drew the man away.
The curious man could not resist,
The shadow’s grip, cold as a serpent’s hiss.
Through the clock’s face, a portal wide,
To a land where lost souls reside.
Now he wanders in endless night,
Counting seconds in eternal fright.
For the clock that counts is not just a tool,
But a gate for the bold, the cursed, the fool.
So heed this tale, let your curiosity drown,
Or risk the toll of the clock that counts down.