Here, I rest, with two words left to say.
To say how I feel is irrelevant to my actions.
My actions are proved by the degrading of my hands.
My hands now tell a story soon forgotten.
Forgotten are all things but tidbits in time.
Time is a precious thing, taken by all.
All do not appreciate the work behind this glass.
Glass breaks, but only if broken by others.
By others, I mean those who forget my face.
My face rests, here, dumbfounded, yet patient.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.