Chronometer

The hand draws out a sharp incision,
Pulling reality down with precision.



The scalpel cleaves the even round,
A precise motion carves the ground.



The eye now loses the first stroke,
The breath in the throat is sharp and broke.



The pulse loses its rhythmic track,
The body writes a dead-cold fact.



Each flash – a shattered piece of ice,
Blood engraves a jagged slice.



Shards weigh heavy, fear does press,
“Now” erased in thought’s recess.