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 table-top edge,

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.