My Time

Once I collected days in a
jar of green-blue glass
on a wooden windowsill
that faced the South-Eastern corner
of my indurate world.

The lid I kept in tight seal
to maintain the lustre,
to preserve the fresh hope;
its earthly smell was alluring
to the point of sickness.

And inside the glass my days stood
shoulders back, lungs closed,
proudly fixated on the axe
that on everything, eventually,
will fall and sever.