meh meh something about clocks

Of opulence and heart attacks
Uneven hands snap invisible fingers
against a rhythmic moment.
Steady, dark, and sweet components
digress, outlasting only twelve
crushed against a wall and nailed
to
morrow.
Only hands.
Deaf and dumb and
eyeless face.
Only hands
cradle that fire (in which we sunbathe)
with such a sad, hot, tight embrace.
Tickling ivories: the clicking soundtrack of lives.
Talking.
Not talking.
Talking again.
Stillness is a myth.