the silent passing of time
of little grains slipping through
in the hour glass
so fleeting and precious
empty or full, one or the other
simple isn’t it?
No, nothing makes a clean pass

There are things left unsaid
Things left unspoken,
Left unheard
the sand in my hand
feels like nothing but a ghostly breeze passing

many have flown away
flown away to somewhere
away from my grasp
while the oxygen I hear breathe heavily
against my shoulders

the air of happiness
of sadness.