The cold sand flows swiftly through my fingertips,
each silver grain glinting with false advertisement,
squeezing through the gates of history,
leaving me to rot in a monotone rest.
Outlook racing closer and closer
as I reach out to touch the majestic,
my hand slips to nothing at all.
Years come to death
in a fluttering tardiness
as I seek the fate upcoming.
Destiny stands with the casualties of degradation,
waiting to kill me with there own show of scars.
Shoving tales of skyward fireballs,
galactic collision,
global melting and tides rushing.
Fright ends the future I pursue
and the present grows fainter.
Day comes to night,
night comes to day,
the present becomes dull with the past
and the future fades white with the present
as the doomed cycle of mediocre time continues.

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