The clock tower stands, a sentinel of time,
Its face etched deep with shadows, stark and grim.
The hands crawl slow, a measured, mournful chime,
Each tick a whisper of a life's decline.
The rusted gears within, they grind and groan,
A symphony of echoes, soft and low.
They speak of days long gone, of seeds once sown,
And dreams that withered in the frost and snow.
The wind sighs through the cracks, a lonely tune,
As twilight paints the sky with shades of gray.
The moon, a silver coin, hangs high at noon,
Reflecting in the window, cold and pale.
But though the clock may tick with somber grace,
And time itself may fade with every chime,
There's beauty in the stillness, in this place,
A gentle peace that soothes, and heals, and climbs.
Tone: The poem has a somber tone, with words like "grim", "mournful", "rusted", "groan", "lonely", and "cold".
Mood: Despite the somber tone, the poem evokes a sense of peace and acceptance. The final lines emphasize the beauty found in stillness, suggesting a sense of tranquility and healing.