It drips from my fingers
Slowly, painfully
Congealing, thickening
Then slipping from my hands
To splash, wasted, upon the floor

My time is getting away from me
My body is a leaking hourglass
Its sand a brilliant shade of red
Slowly seeping through the cracks
Slipping away from me
Running down my hands
Worthless

What is life without time?
Without that pulsing red substance
Churning in our veins
What are we but lifeless and empty?
It is what gives our lives meaning
Gives our actions merit and value

And so we hold our time, our lives
In our hands, staring as it gathers
And as it trickles away

What meaning does each grain, each drop have?

The meaning that we give it.

11:00 pm
04/01/2006
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note: Just wanted to clarify some of the nuances here.
When I say in the poem "It is what gives our lives meaning,"
I am referring to both blood and time. After all, what are we
without blood? It is the currency of our bodies, the nourishment
and nutrients that we need are carried in it. So blood gives our
lives meaning by allowing us to exist and function as physical
beings. But then, what is the nature of blood? It seems to have
a certain mystical quality to it. It is very interesting to consider
the difference between the words "blood" and "lifeblood." Is
there really a distinction between the two? I'd like to thank
Kella Trams for pointing out the need for a little bit of
clarification with this piece and helping me reason it out.

As alwyas, I hope you enjoyed it.