The Hand That Sows Time

She agonized watching the hand that sows time.
At the first hour she lost that new job,
At the third hour her friends called to warn her about the crime,
At the fourth hour she turned the knob

And spent the following half hour diverting enemies.
The eighth hour swung so low, her head nearly sunk
Under her broad shoulders- the nagging disparities
That reminded her she wasn’t Atlas. Drunk

With paranoia and desolation, she welcomed the ninth hour.
Eyes with a propensity to devour secret things,
Began to encroach, like children intoxicated with power,
On her private moments, and though she tried to sing hymns,

Nobody came to offer relieve. Heaven was empty—
except of ozone. Lazy, the sun dragged through the sky sunbeams,
The twelfth hour emerged foolishly testy,
And she sweated not because of its heat, but for calumnies

That shredded her good name.
At the sixteenth hour, she mistook her home for paradise,
But she could still feel the shame.
She dissipated to the god Sacrifice

In attempt to protect her parents and schizophrenic brother,
Angry and desperate she cursed the twentieth stroke,
Once trusting, robust, untouched, two girls and another
Classified group fell down on her, nipping pleasurably at her head, until she awoke.

She saw the hand indicating the 23rd hour. They cursed
her shitty life, her poor clothes, and uneducated mouth,
And the lights from the cameras and white room made the final half hour last ages.
Who was she? She was made to be hounded, stretched, and killed.
At the 24th stroke, not one person asked about her.

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