Time

When the thunder does not stop

and the sky bleeds:

as an ever congealing wound.

Where blue is glimpsed

only in dreams.

That time will creep into existence,

as sure as history repeats itself.

Infinite portrayals of déjà vu.

Days morph into weeks

beneath its gaze.

It is a writhing sculpture of sand,

crafted by an inconsistent artist

with his back to the encroaching tide.

Constantly being carved away,

remoulded and renewed.

Crush the sand underfoot,                                                                                                                  

ignoring the rough pressure                                                                                                                

building against your calves.      

We are trapped in its hourglass,

and the sand is rising.                                                                                                             

There is so little time.

An infinity of time hanging overhead, 

with no way to stop

 the flow of sand

 pouring down.

There is so little time.

But do not worry.

It will be over soon.                                                                                                  

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