Sand

Sand

 

I write because I write,

she thought,

in a round about

sort of way,

and jotted something down

on paper.

 

Her beer cold, and over ice,

she liked to drink

at sunset,

it helped her relax

as she peered through

dark glasses,

at a multi colored sky.

 

And in her mind

an afterthought,

what will tomorrow bring,

soft and silent

the wisp of an angels wing,

she had great aspirations

for the days to come.

 

Yet sat quietly,

when the world spoke fiercely

to her.

 

And as the ocean breaks

so does her ambitions,

falling through the slats

of her well worn porch,

slipping through the grains of sand,

which pump feverishly

through her heart.

 

To the end.

Reviews

[Nancy Lee Shrader]

Very nicely done. Great Write.