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.