A Wild Certainty Flares That Absolutely Nothing Will Happen

You know that gothic hourglass
Foolishness meant to seem grim,
Where the sand grains are all skulls?

Although piled skulls would never
Flow smoothly as grains of sand,
There’s something to the image.

The dust of all skulls soft sifts,
And if each skull is a glass,
All together are the dust.

Mind likes to think of itself
As dust’s spirit, Zôba'ah,
Spinning itself from bare ground.

Mind’s more like Jan Tregeagle
Weaving hopeless ropes of sand,
Wasting time ‘til Judgment Day.

Here we are having passed through
The neck of another hour.
God, turn mind’s hourglass over,

Someone, anyone—or mind,
Which is all there is of time
That mind can measure, will stop.