His graceful fingers softly brushed
over my thigh in a languid stroke,
sending a parade of shivers along.
Slanting him a sideways glance,
meeting blue sky experience
embedded in a roadmap of life weariness.
With a crooked smile and a raised
eyebrow he simply stated;
-Had we been born in the same era
I’d make **** sure these legs
would never walk out on me.

The imprint of his hand stayed
as a melancholic afterthought
long after I had wrapped up
the meeting and left for the airport.
Unfortunately the flight
did not include time travel,
which has been a top priority
on my wish-list lately...

Count the hours on the clock,
Shifting hands to softly mock,
The nagging tick of mortal flocks,
Atop this fetid, burdened rock

Arranged in dandy rows of twelve,
Nestled firm above the shelves,
They strum a tune for silent crowds,
To dust and grime and hellish clouds

Waiting for its muse to strike,
As if a match or flame alike,
It leaps from hours seeking rhythm,
To seize upon a growing schism

Ringing out, it quells the chime,
Weeping children stand in line,
Dead men all accused of crimes,
Against the grueling pace,
Of time

"These bleeding hands, tis' all you thought,
For now you see,
It's all a sign..."