Sand Erosion on a Stone-Sculpted Face


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.

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