Measured circumference
Of my day
Shows tell-tale signs of
Aging
And tiresome figures
exhausted by the hands,
Dictating their momentary
Fatigue.
Weary horizons
Stay still,
Wavering in sight,
Mirage of solace.
When was my pace
Lost?
Were they my feet
That trod
Solemnly over
That frail line?
Twenty-four,
Each hand found
Their way
Around the other,
Felt their way
Around the hour.
Together,
They equaled
Eighteen
When I turned
To gaze upon them
In surprise.
Aghast
For having glanced
And longing
For those hands -
Guilty and miraculous,
Guilty and shameless
With no reason
For shame -
To reverse
In their deliberate pattern.
Eighteen,
Eighteen,
Eighteen,
This number.
Such a description
Cannot be my own.
vV""VIC""Vv
