The Bands of Time, They Stretch and Scrunch

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Oh, how the bands of time stretch.
In the moments of pain, like skin stretched tight over bones, time tenses.
Things take forever.
Pain digs into the spots between fingers, between ribs, between ears.
They don’t make casts for that.
A feather quill in the hands of an artist
Drawing along your veins.
But instead of placing ink,
It draws blood.
Time is painful.

 

Oh, but how the bands of time squeeze.
In the moments of joy, like skin scrunching up over bones, time relaxes.
Things take for never.
Joy sinks into the spots between fingers, between ribs, between ears.
You don’t need casts for that.
A feather quill in the hands of an artist
Drawing along your veins.
But instead of drawing blood,
It places ink.
Time is joyful.






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