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Hands of Time
December 20, 2021
A quiet pestilence,
Killing all it touches
Without making a sound.
Creating constant decay
To wherever it may pass;
Nothing can slip through
Its eternally ticking hands
Which hold the lives
Of all who live.
And one day
The stars themselves
Will fall in its clutches.
A constant reminder,
That in time,
Nothing will matter.
© Anonymous
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A piece of poetry about meaninglessness.