Penny coins drop through my fingers
on top of the grave of the present.
Each a day, second, moment. Spent.
A passing shiver of consciousnesses between sleep rises up into the vast cloudy sky.
A mare wisp of steam evaporating.
Discontentment and regrets grind through the cogs in the clock becoming sand on the beach.
A single day becoming a ringing, chiming melody in the bank of background noise.

The waves taint the golden sand with black filler
The steam becomes a rain cloud
The coins dwindle in to bankruptcy

I fear at the end of my days I will become very poor
Unless you held my hand with your Midas-touch.