The Hour glass
Intoxicate me.
Pour down and stream through tightly.
Awkward exchanges, sly glances.
Why do we do this to ourselves?
Muted emotion.
Crossing in every direction.
Tick tick.
Extraction of the pros,
revelling in the cons.
Packed so tight.
Bursting at the seams, ready to unravel.
Piece by piece,
just fall into place
or another’s embrace.
Yet this puzzle is still humoured.
Unto turned on it’s head and it starts again.
Deenascribbles 