The pieces

I gather the scattered pieces
But they keep slipping through my fingers
And scattering back to the floor
Each time I bend down to gather them again
I am mesmerized by a piece in particular
And I spend moments just contemplating it
Before again I scoop the pieces into my arms
And armful of priceless pieces
Yet they just roll back to the dust
And the dust accumulates on me each time I pick them up
Will the cycle ever end?
For each time my eye darts to the clock
Counting seconds
So the gathering and scattering becomes more like a game
But at what price?
At whose expense?
The answers to these questions I know
But to voice them out would be to accept defeat
For in essence the reins are in my hands
Though I refuse to apply the pressure
And my foot resists the urge to strike the spur.

© Enchante
Age: 21