He held his arms with his hands, and his elbows met his thighs as he sat; his ego shattered upon the cemented floor.
He took his hands from his arms, allowed the veins to open from the vice; blood flowed through to his hands, but his skin felt ice.
He swept with his palm; the streaks could have been sheets of silk.
The pile that layed before him- the shards of memory spilt.
Imagining the sounds, thinking of the smell- A keeper's tool and slate to be found; another story to tell.
The silk in two parts; two symmetrical hemispheres, connected in a circle- the center held one year.
As he swept, head down and locked; neck aching,
His skin lacerations became a mystery after mysteries;
His will to continue was a question after an answer.
No circle but his own could have his year within his grasp,
And time doesn't seem to matter; he swept the hour glass.
There isn't a candle that burns as brightly, when he's the holder;
Holding the candle to a mirror- he sees everything... back to the floor, hands and elbows; slouched over.
