A vigil for the temporally bound,

Deafened by the bodeful ticking

Of a grinning grandfather clock,

Retinas scratched by grains of sand

Lurking in inverted glass, 

Hermetically sealed to conceal

That all constructs are makeshift.

 

Try to outrun the analog hands 

That slice like scimitars;

Reside in realms that protect 

From the arbiters of neglect

Who relish chronic states of vying

And never finding, that condemn

Potential to the fate of a pendulum,

Forever spectral, never morphing

Into actual, life-giving nectar.