crying grains of sand .part I.

we are so small
we have
scarcely
been
born.
life is in the middle of it's
third
round; the
sun is
burning itself
out, and we are
but crabs
scrambling in the sands;
feeble and
scorched in
desparation for
water (or
some form of
earthen
sustinence), bleeding
from cracks in the shells of
our
backs,
dust crusted and
brown.
stars are few and
gone,
leaking like sky-lightened
sieves.
always
searching, always
groping for
some
solid ground. days ebb
together
slowly-
reaching toward some
intangible
progress.
we lose some
sense of our beginnings,
scanning our
memories as if our
first waking moments were
an amnesiac dream.
we are somnambulist
solopsists
screaming for the sun
to retreat
for
just
one
day
(please)
just
one
day.
and the sun resits:
a defiant child
manifesting it's
temper in the bliss of
watching
us suffer; burning the
last of the soul-less
creatures off
under it's magnifying glass lens;
it's glee in the
strands of
smoke that curl,
rise,
and dissipate
off the skeletal remains of
our
aging
backs.
it is a
constant, numbing
burn_
fraying what
nerves might
be left. we leak
salt
from our
eyes and
continue in our
plight; this endless,
futile journey in the sand.