Tonight in my nest of stones I have not slept.
My neighbors argue over how to spend life
as it slips to the base of the hour glass
with no warning that the last grains are falling or that
too many have already passed through its narrow neck.
It seems sensible to be there for the short time allowed.
I endure the boredom of my dark cave expecting metaphors
to fall into my begging palm like coins in a vagrants cup.
Empty handed in the unkempt night I waste my own life
rearranging derelict books to decay eventually in a forsaken attic.
Plundering through their pages, I console myself,
looting them with my intrusive mind.