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Full Stop
Swamped in the wrath of small meaning
I gouge what little life is left
In the moments I was swept up in
But looking back, they now mean very little
The clock gobblers came and held true to their name
Since arriving Ive yet to see the hands peel back and unwind
To see the minutes sift through the glass passage
Or even the way your hands wrap on the table in wait
The face no longer ticks just as I now have my own ticks
Nothing moves anymore, grows anymore
The poor inanimate humanity
Watching forever—in its endlessness
