A Work In Progress

Sands of time slowly through my fingers slip
Outstretched hands reaching, grasping, seeking more
Yet finding now the grains which elude grip
Sparkling, downwards cascading to the floor.
Vibrancy of youth piles on the ground
As time inexorably passes by.
The bells of passage swiftly now resound
And peals of thunder from the mountains fly
As on his pale horse, the rider named Death
Gallops forward and with sickle in hand
Deals a blow that frigidly takes my breath
From my grip stealing two last grains of sand.
My sightless eyes are watching now the storm
Winds shaping the sands into a new form.

-Bill Nimchuk '96

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