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.