Idle Hands

She drew a small circle in the burning sands of time To convey her vehement message of truth A merit so worthy of honor and praise from the ones Who gathered to survey her prelude They watched as she tenderly touched each grain of sand With her fingertips, so delicately fine Each one holding their breath to see what would happen Wondering if the circle would affect their own time Each delicate movement, each brush of her fingers Brought forth new triumphant sighs As each relieved eye in the crowd looked and cheered on When no change to themselves was applied In one final swift movement she finished with flourish The small circle she had drawn with her hands And the world as they knew it disappeared into nothing Like the sands of time, they allowed her to command