Dry sand in my hand,
Nothing left but dry sand,
All that was and now is, is laid in my hand,
What can I do with this single grain of sand?
This that is all that remains of the land,
This single grain of dry sand,
And here in the void we all stand,
With this single grain of sand,
In my hand.
YOU ARE READING
Soft Curses of Angels - Volume 1 - A Fistful of Dust
PoetryThe earliest part of my chronological anthology of bad poetry. Estimated age at time of writing 12-16. I both thank and apologise to any soul who takes the time to read these.
