Time suggests that we, as humans, must
never fail to race yet always, we lose.
Sands stroked by waves are not so gently
stroked when named.
The ever so calming ticks equal the calm before a death storm.
Our veins pulse as we mask our paranoia
with a stressed-filled eyebrow and a nervous knee,
a natural metronome.
The beard of the old man is of first relief.
We begin to swap those tired eyes with ours and
sore hands with ours.
We cannot tell the difference.
It ceases to stop yet we carry it along, thinking
it will soon wear down.