A deathless twist in which my hands grow sore

Obtuse in my mood by the mark of the four

And by sun’s meridian I haven’t got more

But to shamefully begin again

I am only as strict as my binding allows

I am farthest from able to bless or endow

I am simply the teller of what’s here and what’s now

If only I could give you a hand

A juncture of seconds renders my work erased

While an appetite for grief strips not yours of its grace

What justly keeps you from the gift of life’s embrace?

It is not my lifeblood that drips

To the pivot of time’s demand I concede

While the likes of you can roam about free

You have the time, why look down at me?

It is through your hands, not mine, that time slips

-J.S.S.