by M Teresa Clayton
The granules drop, one by one, until the counting is finally done. Then we turn it over, once again – as if we had another chance… to begin. The hourglass, two globed balanced equally by a short passageway. Time will pass, and in a glance, one will forget to turn it and lose the day.
The constant movement of the sand from one imaginary orb to the other – the amusement of it’s accuracy as the silenced sands of time absorb the measure of another – the sand lost ‘neath the sand, unaware of reason’s command to count the second, the minutes, the hour, only amounts to what reckons the limits of your own power.
She is left holding the hourglass, watching the time pass, slowly hypnotized by its movement, the cadence memorized; a wicked inducement capturing ones mind in a pseudo-rapturing where sanity is impossible to find.
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