The Stream

Time sips even so abruptly
through the broken hourglass
while our hands grasping the
air, befitting a jester
only hand full of ash is
what we so eagerly try to
catch, ghasped air
tainted by our fingernails.

With age this fruitless basket
cornucopia of dreams left
to be flushed into the sewer
where all this precious sand
rest at the belly, underneath
of our unsavoured mistakes
poises as a cocoon for vermin
and pestilence.

Could it be
our mortality
it the answer
Godforsaken bane
plagued by doubt
and shameful
bereft....I hope that si not the case.

But insted
our deathless companion
may serve another tale
left for generations to
besmirch the endevors
of greater men,
whom which we will never become.
Only the just dead
is our fate, while we watch
the time slips, again and again.

by nocturnus
posted on 02/03/2020

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Tags: time, meaning

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