Questioning Clock Hands in a Dream

In slumber's grasp, where time unfurls,

Beyond the logic of waking worlds,

I stand beneath a moonlit sky,

And watch the clock hands drift on by.

Their dance is strange, a whispered song,

The minutes stretch, the hours grow long,

Each tick a beat, a silent plea,

"What is time here, what does it mean?"

They twist and turn, a mocking grin,

No past, no future, just within,

This realm of dreams, where shadows play,

And clocks defy the light of day.

I reach to grasp, to understand,

This fleeting dance of grain and sand,

But fingers pass through empty air,

Leaving unanswered questions there.

Is it a warning, whispered low,

That time is precious, let it flow?

Or is it freedom, unrestrained,

A timeless moment, self-contained?

The clock hands fade, the dream takes flight,

Leaving me with the fading light,

And still the question lingers nigh,

"What is time here, beneath the sky?"

Perhaps the answer lies not there,

But in the heart, beyond compare,

For time is woven in each breath,

In life and love, defying death.

So wake I do, with dreams in tow,

The clock ticks on, its rhythm slow,

But in my heart, a whisper remains,

Of moonlit clocks and whispered gains.