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.

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