Ticking Cylinders2

The movement of the second hand endures amidst false smiles on the silent piano all date eternity if only the speed of cars gave the rhythm of time trapped in cells by ropes of my parched throat there is no love in revolution there are only mute portraits faded by distance and by distorted memories if only those bullets from the cylinder of my revolver were words and would burst the void of the ticking that I carry in my head