Perchance to find the hourglass drained

By | 11 May 2026
O, to stay the minced
hands of time restless and plum-
veined at the factory’s conveyor belt.
Sifting through limbs and lives de-
tached from sentiment weathered
worn or torn too close.
Some wounds cannot
be sutured.
The pyre of spent lives
burns bone-light crackling
spitting out earthly excess. O—
to emerge from the split-seam
of flesh charcoaled pods gun-cracked
skittering like starlings twitchburst
into an undiscovered country.





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