"everything you love"

it is all a fantasy,
everything you love;
it's an hourglass waiting
to turn to dust.

it's a tornado headed for
your head; it's
an earthquake that
forms islands, so distant.

so pointless to try to catch the grains of sand
as they fall through the center, they enter
a new dimension that we cannot reach, where they always stay,
always alone, always the same, time on a plane not a line.

and so, there is no such thing as time,
except clocks we invent,
and really, we have already lived and we are already dead,
and the hands of our clocks are permanently set.