The fine sands of time
slip through my fingers,
collecting at the bottom
of the hourglass that is my mind.
Each grain a moment,
a memory, a minute,
that's processed and stored
and yet, eventually forgotten.
A clinking sound as every piece
hits the crystal clear bottom.
Those long remembered remain,
while the others fade away.
YOU ARE READING
As I Sleep
Poésiea variety of poems on a variety of topics a few are darker, a few are lighter, and a few are just somewhere in between
