Tarnished

Tarnished

There is a clock on the back of his hand.
Ticking constantly.
As time is known to do.
The seconds clicking over his skin.
Leaving cuts that will never heal.
Permanent reminders of every misstep.
Minutes slowly dragging, edging deeper.
Slicing over scabs and dried blood.
Deep thunderous knocking that rattles knuckles.
The gears twisting skin.
Forming wrinkles on fingers.
Joints rotating in painful ways.
Tarnished brass that no longer has a reflection.
Unable to see himself.
Time has not be kind,
To the man that has not been kind.