Poetry of a Conlanger

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Empty Fingers

It's always been the same for me-
reach, reach, reach
for a handful of sand,
then watch it slip away,
leaving my empty hands.

If only just once
I could hold in my hand
the handful of sand
as they all do.

try again, fail again.
it's all a sieve.
over, done.
again I'm left
with empty fingers.


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