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The sand no longer falls.

It drifts, uncertain, through the void.

Moments gather in stillness,

Time forgets its function.

I wait,

Not for anything—

Only because there is nothing else to do.

The sky forgot its color,

The ground no longer remembers pain.

The body persists out of habit,

Bones grinding soft echoes into silence.

Memory loses detail,

Then form,

Then the will to return.

The hourglass is cracked.

Unbroken—

But worn.

I speak to a god made of dust,

It says nothing,

And I do not ask again.