A pale hand

That pale hand was spinning
and twiddling
with time.

It pours ink into
the rivers.

We
sit
watching
the sand
drop onto
that bottled up
wilted hand.

That hand
that
pierced through
the rotted
mans chest
through his
meaty heart of
cold
rust.

We piled
up hands
in the line
to serve
and protect
temptation.

Our mouths,
just breathing to pass time.