time is at a standstill,
still watching. waiting. listening
it was moulded, made to be mute
made to press record only when you
hear someone shoot
fashioned to keep fashion and fame, fortunes and fights,
rights that are won valiantly
lives that are lost violently
you’ll never hear about regularity -
only the bizarre, strange
sublime, deranged
damaged persona of time.
fragments of what was
scattered in books, plays,
what “experts” say occurred
where is the every-day-person’s account of the events?
lost to the merciless twists of
two eternal hands.
