Internal Battery

Today I accept an ugly truth.
I will never be content with the amount of Time I am given.
Stacking clocks one on top of the other will not alleviate its fleeting consistency.

Time is fickle,
perhaps not in uniformity
but in relation to me.

If I did commit some ruthless, unforgivable act in the past
that moved Time to spin its Hands
around
around
around
challenging me to a race I wish no part of,
forgive unto me, Time,
what precious minutes, seconds, ticks
You might spare,
for precious indeed they are.

If repentance be what You seek, Time,
allow me one spin
to uncover my transgression.
Permit me one spin more
that I may make amends.

When You are up,
deliver Judgement without affectation.
Freeze--
I will catch up.

If my penance
fails to earn back lost windings,
rotate once more
forward.

Soon Your springs will snap
and Hands will teeter perilously
above twelve, three, five, seven.
No number,
any number.

You will not Exist
once my belief stops propelling You.

9/22/09 -- 10:25 PM