Minute Hand

My gear
Is standing
Still

Though faith
May never
Fix it

Or turn
That hanging
Second

From a feeling
Locked
In time,

And mend
This broken
Piece

As hours
Caught
On waiting

For answers
Lost
To minutes

Where clocks
Can somehow
Change –

That face
If etched
With pain

Or hours
Raised
Like phantoms

At the edge
Of pointed
Needles

Near arrows
Held
By choice,

What fate
Is spun
Each day

Through redeeming
Breaths not
Taken

When counting
Fear
As passing

Such deathly
Pause
We take.

– J. Pigno

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