Broken Hourglass

I...this season was something. My poems often reflect my state of mind at the time of their writing, and I don't even know what happened then.

Drip, drip,
The clock tips;
Time spills forth,
Running over,
Running out.

Momentary puddles form,
Foaming waves crash,
Washing away the past,
The tide sweeps the present out to sea.
The future drips,
Drips.