Hour Hand

My hand is an hour glass and the sand is slipping through,

Not into another chamber but away from me.

Some on the ground,

Some blown in the wind,

Some grains even hit my shoe.

As I watch the times pass and slip through my fingers

And sand particles float away, I realise that unlike a true hour glass these grains will be lost forever,

Lost time.

If I could chase the wind I would, but who can chase the wind?

If my fingers could grasp the specs on the ground I’d try to salvage what is left of what I have wasted.

It is useless, a wasted effort.

Time is destined to pass,

And my hands where never made to hold onto time,

So I must learn to let go, and to walk with this cargo.

For if I do not, I will spend my whole life watching each grain slip through my finger tips,

Into the wind,

Onto the ground,

Gone.

Written By Siobhan Hendricks