The clock ticks on in patient rhyme,
a whisper in the halls of time.
I sit with hope upon my chest,
a silent guest,an anxious guest.

The world moves past with hurried feet,
while O remain in this still seat.
Each breath a bridge to what's not here,
each second loud,then disappears.

The sky may change from blue to grey,
the night may steal the light away.
But I will wait through joy or ache-
for some things,stillness doesn't break.