It is pitiful, and she is to be pitied if anything.
Meant for all things handled in second hand.
Second class in nature; a second class heart.
Seconds ticking away and leave no seconds.
It was always like this, only the sets change.
Always an afterthought, always all thats left.
Always second to inherit the scraps of a life.
Never room enough, always to wait her turn.
Spin on, wither in the abstract, fade in focus.
Frayed into obscurity, doubles the exposure.
And it becomes a photo negative, a reversal.
Twists her further inward, adds another fold.
Can only wind so tightly before critical mass.
It must implode before a new heaven is born.
Every tear to coalesce into embers for a star.
Every cell, every molecule, of colliding worlds.
Reimagining constellations, reanimating mass
And all matters of seconds drifts out of focus.
The edges of a photograph, its event horizon,
Hungrily, to devour what was, now to what is.
And still what should not pity her destruction?
Gifts this second hand cosmos to love alone.
Eternal witness of seconds, second chances,
No longer wills to bare false witness; is stone.