I live at the lower end of the hourglass
The weight of the bearing sand traps me.
To hold on to anything that matters,
I feel the sand slip through my hands, the harder I hold.
Days turn to months, and months turn to years.
A look through the looking glass,
all I see is the predicament,
inching for wind, drowned, suffocating in the sand.
And the next thing you know, it's the switching of the hour,
I am on the other side, barely breathing from the lifted weight, with no end to the falling sand.
They say, let the time pass, it will heal everything.
My piercing thoughts say, "So it has begun again. Is there a world beyond this hell?"
