Work is the tax of time

In the heart of the city, where the skyline gleams, I awaken from the bench inside the clock. The golden light bathes me, pulling me from dreams, And I rise, stretching into the rhythm of the day.  Time is my master, my every moment governed. Inside the clock, under its constant watch, I live my life measured by the ticking hands. I awaken in time, following its steady call.

With a briefcase in hand, I step into the office. Under the gaze of the clock, I labor and toil. Each task is a reminder of the hours spent, A chain linking me to the relentless passage. Outside, the city moves, a blur of light and sound. But inside, I am caught in the gears, bound by time. I am called to work, by the clock's decree, A prisoner of moments, never truly free.

Each second given, is a measure of my worth, In the currency of time, from birth until now. I push through the tasks as the hours disappear, The end of the day always drawing near. As the sun sets and city lights begin to glow, I ponder the moments, wondering where they went. Time is my master, in its grasp I remain, Measured by minutes, fragments of my existence.

When the final chime sounds, marking time’s last toll, I feel the weight of the hours, taken by the clock. Life is but moments, in time’s endless flow, Measured and counted, like fragments of a dream. Work is the tax of time’s ceaseless passage, A truth I have learned in the glow of the clock. I live and labor from morning till night, Bound by time, inside this golden frame.