Tided over

I carry an accident in one of my hands.

Which clenched fist

will you pick?

And is it all just

part of a masterplan?

The fragility of man

exists like shore sand:

Some grains will be washed over.

Some will remain warm.

And tattered hearts are merely victim

to a tide of tears:

That flood of fears

that leaves your ears reminded,

quite ironically,

of the symphony in the sound

of something washed away.

View grahf's Full Portfolio