• The hands of the clock caress every hour;
    gingerly, meticulously, gently they glide
    Through every second, every spending moment,
    while others are about, minding their fleeting days,
    it ticks, turns, spins, whirls,
    ascends to the pinnacle of every hour,
    only to drop into the pit of every half.

    Winding back the moments,
    the seconds, the minutes, hours--
    years pass in mere drops of time--
    spent in envy and vindictive joy.
    Were I able to hold these moments,
    into what darker thoughts might I fall?
    Into what dripping puddle of oblivion
    would a less bittersweet fate loath to find itself?