The Invention of Time

I was born of gears and quiet chime,
The very first keeper, the teller of time.
Before me, the world was a reckless sprawl,
No minutes, no moments—no order at all.

The sun rose and fell in a wild ballet,
Unruly shadows would stretch and sway.
Days tumbled forward, a formless stream,
No clocks to divide the waking dream.

But then, I was crafted with patient hands,
An artisan’s vision, a master’s commands.
With tick and tock, I carved the air,
Each second a step on a spiral stair.

At first, they marveled—“How grand, how profound!
A beat we can follow, a pulse we can sound!”
With wonder, they watched my pendulum swing,
Unraveling chaos with every "ding-ding."

No longer did mornings blend into noon,
Or twilight sneak in too sudden, too soon.
The farmers now knew when to harvest their yield,
The sailor could chart when the sea would be still.

But oh, how quickly the awe wore away,
As I marked the hours of work and delay.
“Hurry!” they shouted. “We’re running behind!”
Their peace grew brittle, their patience declined.

They tethered their lives to my steady refrain,
Bound to the seconds like links of a chain.
Deadlines and schedules, alarms that would scream,
Dreamers now jolted from the heart of a dream.

I watched it unfold, helpless but sure—
Time was a cure, but it wasn’t pure.
They blamed me for fleeting days growing small,
For the birthdays and sunsets they missed most of all.

Yet still, I endure on every wrist,
In towers, in screens, in calendars’ lists.
For though I am burdened with worry and haste,
I am also the canvas where memories are traced.

A child's first step, a lover's last glance,
A lifetime of moments in one fleeting dance.
Without me, the story would wander, unbound,
No beginning, no ending, no echoes, no sound.

So judge me not for the rush I inspire—
I’m the hearth of the present, the past’s quiet fire.
With every tick, I offer a choice:
To chase after time or rejoice in its voice.

- Khushi Kaul