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Thursday, 28 November 2013

The Hands That Never Turn

On the walls the hands that barely move
Solitary focus for each and every day
Gaze that’s cast upon each passing movement
Watching time explode and waste away

Another wasted moment leaves the room
Disappears without direction, lacking reason
And with every other second in the day
Act out existence in a lonely act of treason

Measuring its journey through its sweeping
Daily life dictated by the turning of its hands
Eyes that stare silently to space in desperation
Scenes lies beyond the windows lost in yearning

Every breath that pauses in its path
Witnessed by the eyes of stagnant life
Vacant as the days drift into nothing
As distant as the dawns which fall and rise

The stasis of the moment floating freely
Expectations hanging heavy in the air
Plans and circumstances not forthcoming
Delayed decisions taunt with timed delay

Pregnant pause explodes with sad admission
Hands sweeping now into their resting place
Their stopping point, a place in constant motion
Spun upon a point in stagnant space

Lights that dim upon another day
Closing out the avenues to hope
Once again the doors are closed to answers
No deliverance this day just like the last

Laboured soul lies bleeding on the bed
Invisible, unsighted to his fate
Truth tethered and held back at a distance
Act of mercy comes for one too late

© Fergus Martin

Nov 2013