The hands of time

I've seen the hands of time. Wisend gnarled old fingers, long and slender, in shades of murky grey. The hands grope around the edges of my nightmares, prod the clay of my subconscious, shatter the frames of my memory. The hands of time hold, held, will hold, my brain in its palm. I've become it's plaything. Days blend into nights, seconds turn to hours in the blink of an eon. The hangs do not know why they hold me, that much I can tell. Perhaps they were lonley, stuck in the maze of space all alone. Maybe they're malicious, peeling back the scabs of old wounds ever so tenderly, and pouring centuries of contemplation into foaming brine. I will not know until they release me, whenever that is. For now I'm stuck, staring at the hands of time.