“Tick Tock,” whispers the clock

We are all slaves to time,
chained to the hands of the clock
as they pull us thinner
in both directions;

The past like heavy weights
holding us firmly in place as
cogs of the machine drag inevitably forward,
stretching our skin translucent until we slip,
spinning around and around,
falling on our faces or feet or posteriors,
sagging under wrinkled birthday suits
like the ghosts of our ghosts

left to iron out the details.