Expectations:
sand through fingers.
Nothing lingers except, perhaps, the dross.
A pattern takes shape,
carved by waves upon a grey shore-
a door,
opening into a hypothetical tomorrow.
An illusion?
No!
Wishes make it real,
until sealed by a vagary of the wind.
Then?
Confusion, and sorrow.
Vanity!
Alienation!
Followed by the realization:
sand between our toes.
metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/life-s-a-beach/
