Quicksand in the hourglass

Turned overnight into the shadow,
an ominous space easily overlooked-

devoid of light in this dire dilemma
of grasping at grains, starlit seeds of time,

accepting these days that display
traces of altered spin-
and small places
for sin.

Take out the woven-store the sheer.
Year after year, resort
the bookshelves
by ilk
and most pointed dagger,

Titles,
those names mean nothing
-Placeholders-
arm your selves
about the fire and ice, in these
extremities, inside and isolated,
the glass steams up,
the walls smolder around the skins,

and the colder they get,
the deeper they sink
into the thickest of thoughts.

Tucked in this virtuous blackness,
the rest had no peace,

and the sand moved slowly
towards what could only be hours.



Painting by Sebastiano Ricci, c. 1706 in [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Unearthed

Raw. Now, ready to keep going.

In a moment-invisible-ceases to Be

wholly occupied-full-filled.

We have all lied.

We have all stood others up to and for-

There is no way around,

only through and through

- - -exposure- - -

...

We may stare-bluntly, we may mention Growth

and add up layers, like scars

To become better

prepared when encountering naked, knowing bodies

swallowed as photogenic duplicates.

We want to match the magic

of new skin,

out of regeneration

as it stands

with consumption,

levels, assumptions,

quicksand and ice in the air

leaves us thirsting.

The water all runs off...

Painting by Winslow Homer, 'Weary' (1898) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.