The hourglass on the windowsill.

Its grains of sand dripping into
an all consuming fire.
A mind in overdrive
anxiously trying to outpace
an imaginary timer.

The grief that comes
when you mourn the death
of another insignificant hour.

Still the sand keeps falling.

Burning silhouettes into the window -
muddled reflections of lines on a worn face.
Those that can only be gained...