Grains of sand Suspended in their Journey beyond The crevice, A raindrop Halted before Imprinting on The pavement, Musty air caged In my lungs, Dust in a cloud Frozen in the room, Time has not The decency to Even crawl But instead hangs In perfect entropy, Dangling the future In front of me On the broken hand Of a clock. Seconds acquiesce To each their Own eternity And I scream Into the stillness But the sound Never escapes My own head, Encased in A personal, torturous Epithelium.