Our Glass is half empty,
spilling out dirt and bones and lava and rust
with each pessimistic second
that
Passes Away
Like that thing we
Shattered into golden sand and shards
when we sped over something fragile
(so fragile it couldn’t even stand on its own
Yet)
no matter how much golden sand we spill
It’s never the time for Our Glass to hold
Anything else
they have to say to us
About dirt and bones and lava and rust
Can be said on their own time, but not hours.