and the seashell is hollow,
digging another day gone by.
and the sands of time,
which must be held in place,
or swept to the sea at night.
when you find yourself in the ditch of ruins,
in the mistakes unmistakably not your own,
the walls creep down and inward.
you may lay down the fight,
or give in to flight,
and leave the dunes behind.
but there in the sand is your shadow,
that which others take for granted,
innocence in clean water and air.
because this which is delicate,
is a flower,
yet it must burn to ashes in the pire.
and the silly toes of great endings,
is the death of human besides,
the dead asking brethren sick and weary,
i am found in a ditch tonight.
wait another day another sorrow to hold on,
to the glimpse of what you think can change,
and maintain the ever wetter sand that burrows.
but you forget in that moment you became dead,
and that which is dead did die,
there are no more answers.