#existential poet

to have known the lazy mote short quivering dust drawing letters fruits and tongues on invisible air when these strangers, lovers and broken loves waiting for the train see the speck restless, there and then, the trance of the path whose swirl is as elementary ancient as the nakedness of the sky a speck who deserves as many words thoughts and aches as those we touch and hurt a mote…

Time slips through my fingers,

Sand caresses my hand,

Each grain falls,

One by one,

To the floor.

I look up,

I am so confined,

The curved edges of the sky,

So high above me,

And yet,

I can almost see myself in them,

Reflected.

I lie on the soft ground,

Seeking peace,

Seeking slumber,

Then my world is turned upside down,

Please!

Please!

I cannot breathe,

I crawl back to the surface.

The earth quakes again,

And I look up,

My glass cage,

A giant's hand,