At midnight, my mirror sighs.
It echoes down the dusty hall.
A tired sound, crawling along
distempered, worn out walls.
Replacing broken chimes
From frozen clocks with rusty hands,
I hear time called but once a day
It tells my aging mortal frame
My line of fate unravels in frayed
and fading strands.(Image & Words: Matt Baldwin-Ives)
Death comes like an old grandfather clock whose chimes slow down with time if not rewound d/t to inattention, or the winding down of the one who tries to keep it running and chiming.
I like your thinking (thank you)