The Tower of Hourglass Art

The tower, the tower, the tower!

I must complete this wretched tower.

I must—before I am dead,

before all the world comes to its end,

and gravity becomes the dominant power.

I must build this tower.

Heart… after heart… after heart…

I tear it out—it comes back.

I throw it away—it grows back.

My heart remains intact.

I am no architect—

for my heart

is the foundation:

unstable art.

I must find stability.

Too late!

Tower collapsing,

hearts bleeding,

sheep bleating,

days repeating,

restless sleeping,

crashing, crashing,

crashing—

cycle repeating.

It ends before it ever begins,

gravity choking me from within,

breaking through my skin,

tempting me to sin—

head about to spin.

And my heart cries out in pain.

It is suffocating

and alienating

to have it all collapsing—

losing the will to keep building,

without properly regulating.

And so I try to find the tools,

but all I have is my heart—

to build this tower, tower, tower,

lest I’m a wretched fool—

chasing hourglass art,

searching for power,

until the very last hour.

And after all of this,

I found a delicate little flower

growing from my heart, that was buried

beneath the crumbling tower.

My heart had become a seed,

which would grow a new life

that I would never get the chance to see—

my blood being the tears it cried,

nurturing the soil until it ran dry.

I had no more tears to bleed—

and then, I would die.

I would never know

that this flower

had the true power,

and all I needed

was to lay down my heart

and find myself in Eden—

in the hourglass tower

of a timeless art.