A Precious Few

The movie shows, unwinding
This life, the action, no matter how time
May seem unsynced some, it’s always linear,
The actor a prisoner of celluloid,
Moving forward to the last frame —

This spoon stirs in my cup
Clockwise or counter,
It swirls down seconds —

Inescapable march of time, my reel
Can’t be rewound and played again
And even if I wonder about it, stop stirring
Just to see if there’s a pause
The seconds do run on —

This thread unspooling, each stitch of my life raveled up,
A crazy quilt spun and finished as soon as it’s done.

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