Relics of the First Hour

Fragments of time… broken… burned…

Relics of the hour that first turned…

Prayers carved in shattered gears…

Voices buried beneath the years…

We built an altar from broken clocks,

Crowned with teeth of fractured shocks.

The hands that turned now bleed with rust,

Entombed in glass, entombed in dust.

Priests in black recite the ticks,

In sacred loops of ancient scripts.

The first hour hums in metal tones,

A hymn for marrow and for bones.

We kneel before the frozen frame,

Whisper prayers to broken names.

Time is god — and god has died,

But relics hold the voice inside.

Relics of the first hour burn,

In their silence, shadows turn.

The wheel is cracked, the hands are still,

Yet we bow to the broken will.

Relics of the first hour fall,

Echoes bleeding through the hall.

The spiral bends, the stars are blind,

But still we worship what we find.

Fragments etched in iron skin,

Rust as scripture carved within.

Every cog a prayer we keep,

Every gear a vow we weep.

Candles flicker in fractured glass,

Reflections haunt the altar’s mass.

The axis gone, the center torn,

But faith survives in things forlorn.

Bend the knee to shattered time!

Sing the psalm in gears and grime!

Praise the wound, the endless break!

The first hour sleeps — it won’t awake!

Relics of the first hour rise,

Burning prayers across the skies.

The clock is void, the hands erased,

Yet still we crave the god we faced.

Relics of the first hour fall,

Silent saints in iron thrall.

The void has crowned a broken king,

And still we bow to nothing’s ring.