The Hour Glass

This here, in my hands, is nothing more than an hour glass.

Time paves each grain of sand and marks the hours pass.

As each grain stumbles through a maze of consciousness,

It begins to identify itself with the others.

This is its faction and temple,

It exemplifies its drollery.

However, in all reality it cannot see the revelations forthcoming.

As it makes its way through a labryinth of intergrity,

Wondering,

"Will the next grain be brilliant?"

"Am I worthy of serenity?"

As we reach the ambit,

The prior is clear,

'The maze in which we reside will return to us in fear."

Fear of predicaments and botheration.

Fear of a wasteful trace we left to hinder.

"As we rise above and follow a path of least resistence,

We will experiment with methods and persistence,

We will come to know ourselves and others,

Through an objective perspective a mirror cannot surrender."

 

Yet I cannot help but wonder,

"When I look into a mirror, does it appear to reflect,

The parts of me I so frequently forget?

From the right angle I can perceive,

The lack of trust I have in me."

This poem is about: 
My community
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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