A hand reaches down.
And picks them up, gingerly, gently, with care.
A fractured fragment.
A shattered shard.
Brittle, broken, ruptured remnants.
Places them in order. Cements them together.
Time, the adhesive.
It looks whole again, yet is incomplete.
The compartments, the same.
It works. But it’s different.
What soared earlier, is now sedate and subdued.
The innocent, impatient, insouciant pace,
A thing of the past.
Time, the lubricant.
Its body, repaired. Cache disturbed.
Solidity replacing callow softness.
The walls, now compacted. Psyche, bereft.
Rendered cold, tempered by experience.
The innards, once exposed,
By the imprint of the memory.
Time, the emollient.
And so it functions, dysfunctionally.
Stuttering, restarting, stagnating.
Disregarding of neglect or compassion.
Weary, aged, uncaring.
Its future, the past.
Time, deflated, disillusioned, defeated.
Time, the unforgiving, unforgetting failure.