The sands of time slip through my fingers
Each granule distinct, no two the same  
A thought, a fleeting moment
An eyelash on the cheek softly caressed away
The laughter, the tears, the reality of fear
Passing through my hands as though I am a ghost, never really here
Softly they fall thru as though a gentle mist upon the dew kissed ground
All things are muted as I watch, deaf I am to sound
Individual they are, they do not hurt
Together they create a knife that stabs this continual beating heart    
The tears that come are as dry as the sand
I attempt to grasp them all with this ghost of a hand  
To keep them from creating the knife
The one that takes pleasure in my strife
My attempts are in vain
None can hold and destroy these granules of sand
The ones that slip through the fingers of my hand