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Sand Erosion on a Stone-Sculpted Face
Folder:
Older Something is tinkling into
A glass container somewhere.
The noise is incessant,
Stirring my thoughts
When I think about
A place I should be.
I did not want to think,
That place I wanted to
Forget about just for a bit.
Something is drawing me.
I’m a pile of metal filings
Easily moved with
The right instrument.
This instrument I must face.
The face will tell if
Things will be the way they are
Or I think they are
Or I want to be.
Reality can be turned
Upon itself in one’s mind.
The sounds of glass and
Wind can alter reception
Of trying to make things perfect,
Over and over until
They shine with reflections
Of that place which is blind.
One must face it before
Things change –
They might, of course.
