What people are

When it's Sunday and you can see the grass even now

In the winter, and the sun is out, and people too

They don't see you though, because you're inside and invisible

Even when you're right there, you can't see your hands

Or anyone else's because they don't exist

We're all just a though, a hope, a mistake

But at least we're something

We might hate the world for a reason, or for no reason at all

It's glass, we're all made of glass

And they can see right through us

And when we die, we're sand

Then all our thoughts and hopes and mistakes disappear

And we're nothing