Poetry

The Endless Clock

Tim MargettsAugust 17, 202620 views

The hands of time, unyielding in their pace,
Mark fleeting moments, stolen as they go;
Each tick a whisper lost in boundless space,
A debt we owe but never truly know.

The sun’s rise, indifferent to despair,
Its golden path unbent by human plea;
The seasons turn, unmoved by joy or care,
Their rhythm fixed, unbroken, wild, and free.

Yet in the heart there sounds a different beat,
A rebel pulse no ticking clock can bind;
Though time may make each moment incomplete,
It cannot rule the reaches of the mind.

The clock may count the hours till they are through,
But cannot measure what they meant to you.

Reviews (2)

Rachelle Allen

8/17/2026

Hmmm. This is very deep and worthy of much contemplation. There are two entities: time and man, and although man is sort of co-dependent on Time, he has the option of being simultaneously indifferent to it. Like I said: this bears a lot of contemplation. Thank you for that good assignment today. xoxox

Katharine Folkes

8/17/2026

The Words That Got to Me

The clock may count the hours till they are through, But cannot measure what they meant to you.

Until reading your poem, it never occurred to me that the old saying "Time heals all wounds," probably doesn't always hold true. From your poem's last two lines, the clock/time only counts things as they pass, unaware of the rebel mind, and unable to heal the heart; it just ticks on, interminably. That's a pretty sad commentary. But if forgetting is a form of healing -- I guess it is part of it-- then, the saying could be correct. However, your last line is very true! and, at any rate, you were not concerned with the old saying. And I do understand what YOU are saying in your very eloquent way. And I think, perhaps we could debate on the veracity of the "Old Saying."

edited 8/17/2026