Arrows

This clock toils on in silence
While present ambiguities
Eat all presence of
Both weight and mind

Laboring under the effort of
Its own leaden weathered hands
Time reaches forth to
Strangle all conceit of hope

Soon only the past might endure
As sand spilled out upon
An imprint of shattered glass
And measured minute dust

That arrow that has but little
Far yet to fly carries with her
Memories on raven’s wings
Endured by the stone below