The Hourglass
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Listen to poem:
Grains of sand, begin to stream in steady flow,
As the hour glass is flipped over.
One by one, they fall, through the bottleneck.
Each one a moment, a tick, tick, tock, soft and brief.
On top, the grains are gathered haphazardly in a pile.
At the slippery neck constriction they line up to queue.
like a flock of birds or a school of fish,
getting ready to be called to free-fall in formation,
through the slippery glass funnel into the abyss below.
There they pile-up forming a stock-pile of memories
shaped in an inverted funnel of regret begotten,
in a pile with sand grains tumbling down the sides.
At the top of the hour glass lied a collection of time unspent,
Below lies a pile of sand grain ticks, expended, some misspent.
Between them, lies the funnel of fate’s eternal hand,
Its fingers guiding the passage of time
as grains of sand flowing through the hourglass.
Grain by grain, moments fall,
all fragile and small.
time drifts endlessly
slipping away
sinking,
gone
as memories
pile up, collected
as they spill and tumble
down the face of the base
of the sand filled hourglass
Copyright © John Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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