Counting time

This road ends at the old sea-
wall wedged beyond the possibility
of going any further. The options left
are to fly, swim/drown, or turn back
seek the mountain. There is an uneasy
sense of sinking when surrounded by water.
Perhaps all endings feel that way.

The hourglass broken open(

Tumultuous winds and high seas
have smashed it against the age-
old battered shores. Time languishes
present, and equally absent here.
Its vague pulse counted by the dying waves
counter-intuitive to one's heart,
lost to a sense of direction.

There are roughly ten-thousand grains
of sand in a handful, sometimes enough
to measure an entire minute of life.
Trickling now between my fingers.

In seconds.

_ _ _


  1. Thank you very much for stopping by, reading my scribbles.