It’s formed by rocks,
Which undergo weathering.
It’s what dunes are made of,
Mounded by the wind.
It’s spread on a beach,
Admired by passersby.
It’s walked on,
With footsteps imprinted onto it.
It houses turtle eggs,
Allowing them to seek solace.
It smooths sea glass,
Rounding edges.
And it drains in an hourglass,
Measuring time.
Are we like sand?
Author's Note- This poem is about a time where I struggled with a lot of intrusive thoughts about the concept of mortality-- none of these thoughts were intentional or wanted.
The ominous clouds meandered in the sky, lightning electrocuting the air while Philip grimaced on his bed– or soon to be deathbed.
“Roger that– I’ll meet you there to discuss the suspects” buzzed Officer Spormore’s voice through my walkie-talkie as I sat down in the meeting room in the police station.
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.