Malice

time was the cold, bone-crunching cement 
beneath her feet;
each ticking minute cruel,
and every passing hour punishing 

for, all around her, 
in every moment of awareness, 
were time’s stealthy hands

without warning, they would grip her,
wringing her out in fiery fists,
an icy vacancy on its ceaseless face 
as they squeezed and knotted,
yet, allowed her to live

it occurred to her each time –

what great malice there can be,
in allowing something to live

-image via Pixabay; inspired by a recent read