Who deals time? We all trade it like brokers in fantasy but who runs the bank? We.

We hold up time like death row inmates both guard and prisoner but both are sound asleep and the gate unlatched.

In the morning sun we don our gallow suits and at moonrise return our gaze to the horizon through these cold steel bars. Elbows on the window sill and head cocked like a disgruntled child- 

Our play has become predictable. We traded our cards for coins which now weigh heavy in our pockets. Yet we withhold and covet ourselves.

-glimmering gold-

Please, my dear, at the turn of the dawn look into our shadows, our oldest clock, and become rich.