The Hourglass

(Then)

It's the letting go I can't seem to do.
The unfolding of a tightened hand.
To curl back each finger In forgiveness,
Instead of counting the times I so grievously tried.

(And now)

I'm just a fist full of heart ache,
Grasping onto flecks of sand.
As each glass hour slips away,
I'm clenching firm,
With time forgotten hands.