ShyEyes
Active Ranker
The narrow glass confines the sand,
a quiet measure of the day;
it slips beneath a phantom hand,
and softly, slowly falls away.
We watch the bottom slowly fill,
and mourn the top that drains so fast;
we try to hold the moments still,
and grieve for what is in the past.
Yet every grain that tumbles down
creates a mountain at the base;
the past is not a heavy crown,
but grounding for a steady space.
So do not fear the slipping time,
nor dread the glass that has to pour;
the falling sand is not a crime,
but building toward a solid floor.
a quiet measure of the day;
it slips beneath a phantom hand,
and softly, slowly falls away.
We watch the bottom slowly fill,
and mourn the top that drains so fast;
we try to hold the moments still,
and grieve for what is in the past.
Yet every grain that tumbles down
creates a mountain at the base;
the past is not a heavy crown,
but grounding for a steady space.
So do not fear the slipping time,
nor dread the glass that has to pour;
the falling sand is not a crime,
but building toward a solid floor.

