The Humming Hour Glass

As I sit with a modest noise of silence, I hear the hourglass hum. That steady slip of silent something, every molecule chiming with mutant stokes of light, recalls the piece of past most cherished in time. That subtle grind of sand, invoking the misery that once seemed to be fading away, pertinent to the cosmos of things.

 

Where time is in no hurry, & I can’t seem to shake time. Where there’s a consistent need for a shelter from that bright summer sun, overpowering my own shadow. Where every moment passing reveals and steps to melt me. The sense of dismay & an added purr of stigmatic deception fluttering me, the hourglass lingering with reluctance to quality & a conscience to acknowledge.

 

One man’s twaddle, another man’s destiny, doesn’t quite justify. The one in power, tilting my hourglass to nuke my senses, crippling me & even challenging the gush of air keeping my feet in power & mind as a set. As I sit with a modest noise of silence, besides the glass pane as a spectator of a mute exhibition with voices of the verve & animation of a statue, I rest…

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