as day creeps
to a close,
father time sheds
his skin
to reveal all
along
a slave to him
i have been.
time
how can you recall
the dates?
that blend into one
clanging
clock–
atop its ashy
mantle..
pleading to be
unwound
by next set of hands
to find it
making
that ungodly
sound.
given surplus
time–
i swear i’d waste
it not
on same games
that got me
caught.
tomorrow wakes
me before
i’m done with
now,
then sorrows
shake me..
for what today
would not
allow.
dust in the
ducts,
peering into
moon–
scared to
land..
years spinning
hands.
hands in the garden 
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