Dear Sandy,
I come from a remote island
standed in the sea
nonsensically
wanting to tell this to thee,
tell you that:
Words
are things
you can't
hold onto.
Neither is knowledge.
These things of a similar type
are all stored not even for eternity
but for a human lifetime's brevity
coming out seemingly
randomly
to make mostly quaint
rarely powerful
appearances.
The powerful ones are lucky ones
but not that much luckier in perspective.
For they too erode away
just a little more slowly.
I see myself not as a snowman but as a sandman—
not the one, however, that comes in your dreams—
but the one that passes by you briefly, ghostlike in the light of day
as I blow away
leaving words like raindrops on you
to be soaked up and recycled
in a seemingly endless cycle
as the idealists would like to say:
Your words never go away;
they always carry influence.
Yet in the broader eyes of God
is his solemn knowledge.
He knows words to be neither eternal
nor incredibly short—momentous and viral.
Rather, they just slowly spiral
out of control
but seemingly calm and steady by day.
Similar to how the earth is
going round and round and round and round and
burning to a crisp by way of the sun.
One day it will all be done
Unless we escape
to the heavens—whichever one you believe in
us being most capable to reach.
Returning to the subject of words,
I can't say that I have that many more.
Maybe I should just retreat to silence.
Or maybe I'll say some words once more.
How does this any way matter? Am I just a bore?
Just ignore
the petty and self-pitying sentiments given by me.
I'm sure you'd rather hear about the sea
