the sand lies within us just beneath the surface

but no one will find it not customs officials

or surgeons or cheap state psychologists

searching for photographs of smothered children

the sand we keep within us we draw it in

deep breath in and if we are lucky the fire

in our hearts is strong enough to melt it

into the glass that we use in our later years

to stare at our neighbours through.


every now and then now i am older my facade slips

and tiny grains of sand trickle from my lips or my eyes,

gets in my shoes and sock, tiny grains that tell me

that we should all be very worried because when it

comes no amount of sand will help push up back up

through the mud.


at night i dream of a cottage in england, where death

and i draw charcoal sketches of those too young to

know where to put the sand that threatens to engulf

their tiny lives, those with no knowledge of the deep

primal breaths needed to suck it up and push it down

and keep going even though they are drowning.

◄ basquiat

the man stood in the corner of the room ►


No comments posted yet.

If you wish to post a comment you must login.

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message