Nervousness, racing thoughts, shaking hand as he wipes the sweat from his brow.
The crisp, illuminated glisten, the edge of razor wire shouting to the world.
This is where they come
This is where “out in the world” hesitates, the second hand on the clock sweeps in a slow pitiful pace.
This where nervousness breeds, grows
This is where existence turns to a small drip of sweat
He watches for it to stop, he wishes, begs, pleads, prays.
They swirl and create damage but never fade.
Dreams rise from the dust, maybe.
The second hand on the clock sweeps in a slow pitiful pace.

B