Sunday, October 22, 2017

unraveled into deicide

October 22, 2014.

Weeks roll by,
each one with
stars shifting, tilting, whirling
through a molting firmament,
cutting through time's sands,
trailing a grainy comet's train:
sand and dust of moments too quickly
sweeping
through an hourglass,
too fast,
too fast.

Freeze the starry hourglass.
Stop the sands slipping through
its slender waist.
Arrest the minute hand gliding,
cycling both inevitably and with grace,
around the clock's placid face.

Cherish each small grain,
Swirl the fleeting moments
in the bowl of your glass hand,
legs slipping slowly down the glass,
dragging them slowly down your palm,
feel how sweetly the sand and wine are mixed,
sand melted,
blown into a fragile, starry glass,
refracting, like a lover's limpid iris,
a bit of bright eternity.

To the tune of this new requiem,
savor each momentary
grain of sand,
in which lux perpetua 
still shines.

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