Eligy In Silica

The hourglass doesn’t mourn—it records.

Each grain a timestamp, each descent a eulogy.

Silica, the ancient scribe, whispers through its fall:

not of endings, but of transmutations.

Encased in ornate iron, time is ritualized—

a cathedral of delay, a sanctum of entropy.

The violet glow isn’t mercy; it’s memory.

A forensic shimmer on the surface of forgetting.

This elegy isn’t sung—it’s sifted.

Not in voice, but in velocity.

Not in grief, but in gravity.

Done