I object to the allegory of time as sand;
finding honey more apt.
Time does not fall through the fingers to
mix indistinguishably with its fellows.
It lingers,
waiting, clinging, relentless,
Until
hands are scrubbed clean.
The abrasive grit is soon forgotten;
the honey never leaves.
Sticky residue remains and even longer lingers the sweet scent.
I press my hands to my face
breathing deeply.
Maybe this is religion,
Maybe this is time,
Maybe I’m just a child with sticky hands.
Ellen is a 15 year old aspiring academic from the West of Ireland. She would like to know why.
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