My parents hold onto records of me through time,
and I keep on wishing that I could undo time.
Once, I tried to remove the two hands of a clock,
as if my little, calloused palms could unscrew time.
These days, I chase after the next day to come,
running clockwise in circles as I pursue time.
My mind reels as quickly as the broadcast headlines;
on most days, all that I want is to subdue time.
Another morning rises to falling gunfire.
I pray and I say never again each new time.
Smoke swallows the sun as my town catches fire.
With this world inherited, I can’t renew time.
Fear holds my hours hostage within my own house.
I break out because I know I can’t redo time.
I wonder which fears fester in minds held by chains,
whether prayers transcend bars for those who do time.
I wear the paranoia I wish I’d outgrown.
For years, I pretend that I’ll grow up in due time.
For the disillusioned end to my youth, I’d give
one-and-a-half stars, if I were to review time.
My dreams are becoming no more than memories;
tracing paths to my past, I am now lost to time.
I have always heard a ticking in my heartbeat,
a countdown to my final goodbye. Adieu, Time.
Writing: Sandra Chen
Music: Alan Shen
Art: Katherine Xiong