The hour clock in my hand,
Flips over to show two conversing hours.
The sand drains the central pole,
And the heaps have become stagnant beneath.
And now, I've again flipped, but this time,
To watch the sand drain,
I glide into these spirals of conscience.
Until the last glass empties, so do these all thoughts.
And there goes all wasted hours of this mind that rambled through and through,
where nothing comes to closure,
Yet the restlessness drives me to flip it again.
YOU ARE READING
The diary
PoetryThe diary of randomly ranting someone, to get through days of melancholy or misery.
