The hourglass is fixed in place,
the sand is falling.

The process,
irreversible and steady,
a logical conclusion
of the starting conditions.

The dictate of gravity,
absolute and inevitable,
all the grains
must act the same.

The fallen grains,
indistinguishable from the ones above,
yet, unlike them,
as cold as a desert night,
as sharp as broken glass.

The fallen grains,
void of potential energy.
The pile of sand,

One day,
every grain has fallen,
immovably arranged,
as the process demands,
misaligned and isolated,
denied both freedom
and the beauty of crystal bonds.

A sad pile,
stuck in place,
frozen in time.

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