Time
The hands of Time sludge through the clock,
A flutter of productivity as seconds grind to a near stop,
This much rehearsed drill, all present, all in file,
We chip away Time's rough edges, no regard for reconcile.
Would you unscrew Time's sturdy wings?
Could you prelude the disorder it brings?
The hands of Time surge round the clock
A stutter of productivity, you wish it would stop.
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