Sometimes I wish I could pause those hands,
that sluggish tick that mocks me.
Each slow sound races like the trickling of sands.
If I could halt them,
for only a while-

What joys could I posses,
if the weight they hold were born by me,
what truths would I be told.
Their harsh regime cripples the weak,
and decimates the old.

Their relentless movement stifles me,
trapped within their design.
The strongest hands that be
are no match for those that drive them.

Only in death do we escape this mighty pair,
in the sleep of ages are we free.
Yet we seem to cheat them, you and me.
In each frozen second of voiceless speech.