I saw the angels dancing
on the head of the pin
and knew they
weren’t dancing for me.
The grains of sand,
dripping silently through
the hourglass,
a miniature desert of seconds.
The clock mechanisms,
clicking and whirring behind
the elaborate clock faces,
now chill me.
Time, is passing,
hurtling forward,
at a ludicrous pace,
and I can hardly keep up.
The blinking perpetual
midnights of unset digital
clocks, mocking in a red strobe
flickering, illuminating the truth of time.
Even sitting still,
there’s no stopping time,
quietly breathing, hoping
it’ll just slow down.
But it won’t,
not for any begging or pleading,
coercion or cajoling,
it won’t stop.
Even when we’re gone,
it’ll persist, filling the hourglass,
the ticking of clocks,
dancing on the head of pin.
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