Hand lost in space-time,
cries and laments in the eternal void,
hours so called by convention,
minutes and seconds going back and forth
against
destiny.
Hand I stare at tirelessly,
I lose hours and I lose days and I lose months and I lose years,
and nothing from this hand announces what I need.
Hand that moves independently
from my cowardly attempts.
Deceitful hand, it stopped, and with it
I stopped.