The Hourglass

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