The Hour That Watches Back

The Hour That Watches Back

The eye does not blink, it listens,

gears whisper in its quiet pupil,

a thousand small teeth turning,

grinding minutes into something sharper.

I feel it measure me, not kindly,

not cruel, just certain,

as if time has a mouth

and I have already been tasted.

Chains drift loose around the edges,

as though something tried to hold it,

as though even time once feared

what it might become if left alone.

Numbers fracture, fall out of place,

hours slipping from their bones,

and still the centre turns,

still the silent ticking grows louder.

I stand inside that watching circle,

caught between what was and is coming,

my breath another cog in motion,

my pulse a clock I cannot stop.

What is a second, really,

but a blade that passes through us,

leaving no wound we can see,

yet taking something each time.

The eye knows, it keeps count,

it gathers all the lost fragments,

every forgotten hour, every undone word,

every chance that drifted too far.

And when it closes, if it ever does,

will it keep me inside it,

another piece in its endless turning,

or will I finally fall free of its gaze?

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