We are grains of sand.
Marked within the glass.
A gathering of what’s behind,
out of reach, as one more grain
tumbles, brushing against
broken thoughts and lies
we turned into truth. There are
doors we locked and clouds we
pointed at; road signs desperate
to advise. Another grain of names
slips thorough, some forgotten
others still speaking. Diamonds
and pennies all look the same.
Security is the cost of loneliness.
Friends resemble keys turning
locks. It’s the end we can’t see.
Another grain falls.
Roger Singer 