There is a line that cuts straight through
Our realm. It Ticks, notes, and disposes
As it falls ever lower and lower
In a claustrophobic black beam.
I feel it beating and tearing on my body.
I see it moving on my wrist
In continuous circles as it hopes to disguise,
Within the very matter it decays,
The infinite it will never quite obtain.
On and on it likes to go faster
In a rush to the next technician.
It receives a diagnosis and ignores
All the wise words of salvation, and
Therefore finds itself slipping behind
Until its’ ticking becomes difficult to find.
Refraction is the action that it takes
As it finally surrenders to the technician’s verdict.
In that moment, as ordered,
It touches each man’s grave, and
Shoots back up like a ribbon in the wind
Looping, twisting, sustaining
All in a bright cloak of prismic colors.
Free at last, it is as it was made to be.