Kassidy Smith
An hourglass.
What is it worth to you?
Once, it meant everything.
The golden timepiece, a trophy on the mantel,
a shape women learned to love and fear.
They turn it like a ritual,
small cuts etched as promises in the skin.
Each grain is another measure of worth.
Now it lies in a gamebox,
its meaning reduced to a token.
Trivial knights, men who name beauty,
say “time is up” when its sand runs out.
When lost, the hourglass is rarely missed.
Phones hum newer, brighter clocks,
a time that asks nothing of the body.
Its one purpose now stolen by a screen.
Will the hourglass matter again?
Only armored hands shall decide.
Now, the sand runs thin.
Time is up.
The decision has been made.