How you trickle silently,
Thoughtless of the grains
already
Falling prey to gravity,
Filling up her bottom half.
Early on the hourglass was
So top-heavy, slow to empty,
Moving with the speed of
trees
Left growing on the mountainside.
Then somewhere along the way
Your flow increased
eleven-fold,
Smothering the future in an
arid,
Acrid storm of dust.
Memories belittle any distant
dream
Of wealth or fame,
Settling instead for hope of
Reinstated afterlife.
Let there be no sad regret.
Let there be no sorrow.
Part two isn’t over yet.
I wait to meet tomorrow.
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