As one spins the dial

Fate is actually revolving

In hands of gold

Trembling with power

They pass the notches round

Carefree, or perhaps with concentration

Landing on the pre-determined numbers

The opening, Pandora's box.

 

A mind can wander to what was left behind

From times of previous moon cycles

Suppose one was in fault

As mistakes may go,

And could no longer remember

What treasures waited beyond the shining steel door?

A book with pages that whisper?

A meal to quell a most ravenous hunger?

Perhaps even a letter of love with passionate declarations.

 

As the incremental markings whir by

Fingers start to slow, steady focus

But the bell chimes

The last sixty seconds of freedom

Eluding to the coming hour of doom

A perspiration of dew, ripe

A shallow breath, nervous

Cease with one more beat of the rabbit heart.

In anticipation of the last designated number

And at last, the click.

 

Eyes rove in wonder for a glorious treasure

Only to find a fly, in the gaping mouth of the cavern

Life long since gone from its papyrus wings.

As disappointed with an empty death as one may be,

AS was the one whose locker held no reward

An ominous sign of the tardiness that ensures

A death soon to occur.