bow low sweet hearts
be still new moon
sands are pouring through our fingers
and we can't move to grab them
so we stand lifeless
tears running down our cheeks
skin cracked and dry
face and hands numb
we fail to see our purpose
as statues above the empty ground
motionless is not dead
sorrow is not weakness
our faces are a constant wondering
questioning...sighing
and the sands remain
encasing our arms
a heavy weight
we feel on the verge of crumbling
what does it feel like to break free
to shed the outer shell
to be warm again
hope for a river's rushing
noble and reasonable
we move our eyes
we look to the skies
hoping for a rain
to make us mud
to flood our skin
to bring life
but nothing
what is hope then
if it never comes
will it ever come
should we stop hoping
should we let ourselves crumble
because it never comes
but what if it does
shouldn't we hope
for sorrows sake
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment