Time
Is a funny
Old thing
Dripping in
Sand
And paint
Covering
All those
Involved
In pasty flakes
Of the forgotten
The badly
Remembered
The curses
The bruises
The hidden
Sunshine
And grating
Of a life
Half lived
Half remembered
Shaking its
Salt pot
In light fisted
Anguish
This dust
In which
We live
In which we
Inhabit
Is soon
Lost
Amongst the
Cobwebs
And ashes
Of those
Yet
To be
Born