Oh How Subjective The Wrists and Minds of Men

Existence, subject to time and reason

Never to influence another 

But through some off shot memory

So trivial is the exploration of its meaning and significances

But how sweet its indulgences

When one can free a mind from its dictates

Ensnarled by the minutes and passing moments

Can I not yet realize the time ahead?

Or does my feeble mind choose instead

To focus its talents on that which is present and certain

Even if only for a fleeting moment at a time

For each passing experience 

Is subjective to its ancestors 

And do not exist until the moment they do

And the moment after their fore bearers, cease to

If living by each transpiring twitch of the hand

Will comprise my life

I choose instead

To rid myself of awareness

And so too the leather chains on my wrists 

Adorned with circles of gold and silver

Only to prey on mans predispositions

To become enthralled 

In the trivial