Each tick, a whisper of time that fleets,

A heart's echo in the void that beats.

Tock, the sound of life that retreats,

In the dance of hours, our end it greets.

With every tick, shadows stretch and loom,

Time's silent march, to the edge of doom.

Tock, and the walls of fate entomb,

The light of days in the gathering gloom.

Tick, the pulse of moments we borrow,

Tock, the sigh of impending sorrow.

The clock's hand points straight as an arrow,

To a morrow that may never follow.

In the tick, memories flicker and fade,

Tock, and the colors of life degrade.

The final countdown that time has made,

In the heart's quiet serenade.

Tick, tock, the clock's relentless chime,

Marks the rhythm of a life's last rhyme.

In its cadence, we hear the sublime,

The finite dance of the sands of time.