Goblet of Youth
Time slips through my fingers like water
before I get a chance to drink it in.
Just as droplets jump with frenzied desperation
from the edge of a glass toppled table-top,
Salty tears splatter in untiring array
as I try to refill the spilt goblet of youth.
I crave for my cracked lips
to be bathed in the tranquil azure of possibilities
that rise like steam before lazy, overslept eyes.
For the saline potion to bring me back
like a jolt from a dream
to the words unspoken,
the mist veiled paths unexplored,
the hand which never learned to yearn
the lingering ghost of my fingers.
