Love at best is an ephemeral child
washing dry sand through our fingers like dreams.
Building too close to the shore we’re beguiled
The incoming tide soon shatter our schemes.
However certain we once were of love,
when gone, attempts to rebuild are in vain.
Over sands washed anew we gaze above,
and standing alone we wonder and blame,
as a very small child rushes home for tea.
With dreams washed away with sand virgin new
we ask the question, you know, is it me?
and know a part of us believes it’s true.
The following day, the game starts again,
as we pray for an ending... not quite the same
YOU ARE READING
Still Waters
PoetryA collection of metered poems of life, death and everything in between.
