I had an interesting day today, lying in bed and contemplating while falling back asleep periodically and waiting for the cold medicine I took to kick in. I decided to go searching through my box full of old notebooks to see if there was anything interesting contained within them. One of the poems I found was this:


The hour-glass sits upon the shelf,

controlling time around it,

harbinger of passing life,

and as the sand keeps falling through it,

all the man can do is stare at it.

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