Ephemeral Hour

In the realm of time, where moments melt like wax, A surreal landscape unfolds, a dreamlike haze. The clock, a monarch, stands with grandeur worn, Its face a canvas of memories, forever torn. The hands, like skeletal fingers, grasp and slide, As time itself becomes a fluid, malleable tide. The numerals, once steadfast, now blur and fade, Like whispers of a forgotten serenade. In this world of chronology's fragile might, The very fabric of reality takes flight. The clock's decay, a metaphor for our own, A reminder that time is never truly known. Yet, in this dream, we find a truth profound, That time is relative, a mystery unbound. And as we gaze upon this melting hour, We are invited to reframe our mortal power.