On Life, On Death Poem by Gabe Florsheim

Only a crystal force as the thin barrier.
Remains to separate chaos and order.
Trails of sand, a vital resource to construct
The glass, as a tragic satire, line the walls.
That negligible bit of sand which slides
Without a sound and settles in the hourglass,
And the fleeting impressions a mere memory
An acquiescent stillness as its absolute destination
Then a hand that turns over the hourglass,
The going back for flowing back, of sand,
The quiet silvering of a cloud
In the first few lead-gray seconds of dawn.
The hand in shadow turned the hourglass,
And the negligible bit of sand which slides
Is silent, is the only thing now heard,
And, being heard, doesn't vanish in the dark.
As if organically, given all its nutrients,
A subtle fissure traces the equator.
Behind the veil, the crevice goes unnoticed.
Without nurturing, it clings to the unstable.
Tension stands on the edge of the construct
Stories high, a crowd below, only death between
Time is conflicted, this fatal error, dire inconsistency
At once reaches its final strand and snaps.
The candle unlit, and sand pours out, out.
Tides rise to vital heights, the moon drowning in its creation.
Solace is found in disparity, in nothingness
Each grain, lost to fend for itself.
Tribes are unstable, communication is absent.
This new air, like mustard, gas asphyxiates the lungs
Each inhale is a step into the well-lit darkness,
A caustic invitation to the final chapter.
And the sand settles, each stone now turned.
To each the boulders have fallen astray.
And all is silent and the hand that feeds
Is barren.