The clock has stood in the corner of the room
since the days when our love first did bloom.
Second by second, hour by hour
it watched as the bloom turned into a flower.
Over the years it tenderly ticked and tocked,
Chiming with every new hour clocked.
The sound that filled the room a faithful companion
While the face of the place changed with the passing fashion.
Some days the room was colder than times that’d gone
But still, that constant clock kept ticking on.
Now, day by day the clock is slowing,
Showing signs of its prophetic knowing.
It stands quite high as it sombrely ticks,
empathising with every tear that drips.
One day the chiming will come to a still,
Marking the end of a terminal ill.
And on that day when the room will silent be,
The broken, old clock will stand helplessly;
Unable to make its cogs restart;
Unable to mend this broken, old heart.

Freeverse Version

The clock's friendly face has watched
from the first minute of our time.
It's sound has tracked our life,
joyfully chiming the passage of each new phase.
As we grew and the room it stood in changed,
the clock stood watching us still.
When the room grew cold;
when we learned of the illness;
the clock never stopped
but faithfully stood its ground.
It's still ticking now, as I let my tears fall.
But it's cogs are rusting
and it’s slowing down.
It’s laboured ticking matching your breath.
Soon the ticking will come to an end.
The final passage
marked by a silence so great
that time itself
will stand
still.