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Calculated Breaths
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Society It’s just a matter of time
before we run out
like grains in an hourglass.
On the stroke of death,
her hands halt breath.
She doesn’t turn around;
she moves about in circles
but always advancing forward.
Counted tomorrows
are moments borrowed.
Racing against the inevitable,
we stitch clocks shut as if
they would stop ticking.
Drink from death’s cup.
Your time is finally up.
