Glass Hands

time.

Something so precious to the world we live in. Worn like adornments for our bodies. Religiously, like a catholic with a rosary. Life past solely through the glass hands of the crystal clocks strapped to our wrists like embellished handcuffs.

And it's all we've ever known, born into anxiety, taught thoughts consumed by each descent down by a weighted hand.

time.

A bomb ticking against the palpable silence hushed over a society caused by grief and sorrow before the time cards chime to clock in again. Counting the passing memories and woes of life like a boring film whose climax is only reached when it ends. When digits are calculated by the tips of fingers; digits. To count down the minutes close the veil is to be lifted. The seconds till, those seconds are finally up. Yet somehow still unbeknownst to us how fast we fell into a dark slumber with what eyes we thought were wide open.

time.

How do we coax the time to still.