Stick 66 - Hour Glass Sand



 

The hour in the sand glass...

 

I ran cold ice-white sand through my calm reflective fingers

and I knew what it meant

 

I scooped small sand-handfulls, but realised that sand cannot compress

and I knew what this meant

 

I lay back and closed my eyes and dripped the sand from head to toe

and I knew what this may mean

 

I rubbed the sand accross my belly button, filling the hole to the top

and I knew exactly what this meant

 

I stood up and shaked the sand off and felt it scrape and hurt my salty skin

and wanted to avoid what this meant

 

I picked up the empty sandglass and realised the hour had passed

and I knew the meaning meant...

 

... that I should add soft sand 

... to the palm of my grasping hand 

... till every belly-button moment 

... fills me with the wisdom and foresight of what it all meant