Art, Pen

Clock with Equal Hands

A squeaky voice pierced my eardrum against my brain,

fast feet, slow feet, zigzag feet, static feet making prints on the memory,

sweat rolling from the forehead, cleaning the dust from blocked fortune lines.

Veils on faces, couldn’t trap those pretty eyes weaving dreams out of free air,

old hands holding new cards, some raise the bet, some of them fold,

a reflection caught my sight, lost in the crowd, seems so profound,

lines of his head relaxed when I realized it was a mirror.

Some dreams turn sepia and decay,

some of them see the sun of may,

we all are a visitor there with no privileges to amend,

“Hey! What’s the time?”

I can’t tell. Not from a clock with equal hands!

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