End Piece (Poetry)

A few more hours stretching strange
while clocks still tick the same as ever
run on as though there is no change
a gapless stream no hand can sever.

Yet someone counts them as they pass
the numbers alter, pages turn
sand trickles through the narrowed glass
dim histories of cities burn.

The line is close — unseen — unheard
between the now and what’s ahead
and time’s a small elusive word
whose meaning hangs, its truth unsaid.

What once was young has youth no more
eyes lose their brightness, blood goes thin
old age slips slyly through the door
the moment no one’s noticing...

No turning back — the spring is wound
these hours slide into the past
the chimes ring out their doleful sound
the future waits — the runes are cast.