Chronorrhagia
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As I bleed in this glass prison,
I have settled down to berime
The wait for exsanguination:
Through my wounds flees the sand of time.

I try to catch it in my hand,
To retain it - to no avail.
Through this hole under me, the sand
Trickles gently out of my jail.

Does it pile up at the bottom
Of this hourglass? I can't check:
No ray of light ever shines from
The dark chamber behind the neck.

Perhaps this odd chronometer,
Missing its half, is a worthless
Bottle feeding a catheter
Lodged in the arm of nothingness.

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