Hands fly.
They buzz in pretty little circles,
round and round.
The circumferential numerals
countlessly winding down days.
Hands spinning away years.

Seems their speed is dependent,
relative to routine.

Slip into a well-grooved track of mundanity
and watch the wheel run.

Dash in a bit of change, though,
and feel it slow a bit.
Take a step out of that path worn into the floor.
Face a new direction, argue with your compass.

Slow it all down.

Slow life down
to a sober crawl,
stand face to face with
that clock on the wall.