Face

We call it the face of time.
A cold mechanism of gears and wheels turning circles ever at our will.
Does it feel like feathered eyelashes the briefest glances across it's round glass cheeks?
Does it bear the weight of heavy staring eyes longing?
Does it gather the dreams and wishes of
                  elsewhere
                                    elsewhen
                                                    elsewhy?
And wonder at the minds of us mere beings who gather strength from hope?
Or does it murmur
              bless this moment...
                             bless this moment...
                                            bless this moment...