After Hours

Do you remember the huddling? 

Removing your eyes from sorrow into something. 

Raising a fire inside toward life

Without enough starter to fuel a void, 

In hopes to ignite a wise mind 

From making a foolish choice. 

To the point of prose on culture 

In a land of living dread, 

With what little of what we know 

That we give to changing hands. 

Each movement of the clock's composure, 

Ques the waiting sands. 

Filling to its brim, 'til it's time to pay again.