Time In Stone

The soft tick, a wooden hollow sound— once, and again.

An eyelash bats, brushing a porcelain cheekbone, the rustling sound hardly audible—

but there.

Outside a delicate laced window the moon rising and falls again. It is watched by careful eyes, taking both a minute and an eternity. The essence of time here is like stone— forever unmoving, captured.

A brush through hair, long, dark, the rough sounds of the bristles caught in a snag. Airy breathing, a frustrated sigh escapes the coral painted parted sun rises bright in the room, sun-leaf shadows dancing on the walls. She raises the looking glass, her face reflected in the smooth oval.

The wind blows harder, whistling, groaning- there is no time here. Tree branches claw at the walls, wanting in, desperate.

They too want to escape the grip of time. She stills, places the mirror back on the vanity with a metallic click that is loud and unwanted. She sits, still, free—

ageless.