Blogs from Jupiter

Will I ever keep the memories in my pocket?

And let the Sunday pass withou me noticing it.

As I count the remaining days and spine the final hours,

the minute of uncertainty occurs.

The sand on the hourglass will soon reach its noon,

and when the last drop of dust joins the bottom pile,

time must reverse.

My pocket is full and I do not know how to put in the seconds,

for every moment of fancy is a number on time’s face.

Time inverted and time inverted again,

the unending turns will lump my memory.

Time’s immortality is a monotony–

every clack of the clock is a quip.

.`. better shatter the glass! And put

                   Time.

In my hands,

as I count the remaining days and spine the final hours.

The granules and chunks of four sliver sprayed on the floor space

                   slices

The memories…

old and new, will now fill my pocket.

Can facile fingers pick them one by one?

A gentle pierce, a splinter with dry putrid sand imbued my thumb.

I licked the bead of coagulated blood and lingered the tangy gritty blend.

Bitter shattered glass! A pungent tongue, but I did not spit for

Time’s sting is a trifling.

The wait is over and the sand never reached its noon,

and the wind’s hush from the window cleared the space

where the sand once sprayed and where time stood still in my domain.

The remaining sliver whispered crystal tingles, a sof screech saying,

"Let the memories freeze with your thumb’s splinter… It’s

                          Time.

to go, somewhere, where time will follow"

Another Sunday will soon come and my pocket is full.

My facile hands now lead the hands of time.

Time’s immortality is fragile,

and I will keep on breaking hourglasses and picking up its pieces

until my pocket is full.

Never leaving a memory.