Hourglass.
The glass
is quickly running
down, and has not far
to go. I feel the sand in every
frown that drags my will down low.
The silicon, conniving grit that rubs
on every pore. Abrasive and
invasive, See? It evens
up the score.
The score of
the accumulated
years and also fears.
As layer upon layer peels the
pity from my tears. The culling and
the dulling of my empathy corrodes,
the final days, approaching, soon
no more to tread these roads.
The Glass is running quickly
down, I have no will to
turn it round.
poem by Hola Mentirosa
Added by Poetry Lover
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