An hour is counted by it’s passing

An hour is counted by its passing,

And by it passing is measured.

As I watch the unmoving sand of this desolate wasteland,

This thought comes to me,

It’s meaning obscured by the shadow of my own mind.

I walk a ways to complete the task at hand,

But the thought still echoes in my mind,

Like the torturous iron bells though a poets mind;

An hour is counted by its passing.

I stop a moment to ponder the sand around me,

It seems to mean nothing but yet why do my emotions rise as I stare?

Is it that this world meant nothing till it had passed away?

An hour is counted by its passing.

The dead tell no tales,

But who knows what tails the living may yet tell.

My fallen family holds a place in my heart,

But they held no such place as they lived,

The living mean nothing till they are gone and resting in the sand.

My eyes clear as my thoughts return to the sand,

I look down at my hands,

The hands by which this land was giving meaning.

So too will these hands kill the memories of the living,

And give them the meaning they deserve…

Well they may not see it that way,

But an hour isn’t counted until it’s passed.

And only by their passing will they be measured,

And only by their passing will they have worth,

And only by passing them will I hold worth.

The wind blows slightly leading some sand into my eyes,

I try to think why…

But nothing comes to mind,

Something forgotten from my mind,

It had meaning once…

So then…did it come back to life?

An hour is counted by its passing.