seems that time is a silhouette birthed from commodity
the clock paints me into sands that turn glass
the heat is too much on most days
and I melt under the pressure
and I break continuously
into pieces
fleeting
grains
of
sand
marking
my words and counting
all of my minutes until nothing
is something once again and I see the light
and bask in all of it's glory as it mocks my progress
and the clock is turned around, I have run out of time it seems.