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Hands that used to be
on clocks on empty walls
have blood upon their feathered selves
dying from their fall

They once soared high and mighty
like the times in which they flew
So much good and wonder-
the times they never knew

Time's slowly dying
to never move again
So slow in pained misfortune
are the times that I'm within

It seems the only question-
now has always been-
is will my precious time
ever fly again?