Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Sand and Stone

Sand and Stone

There is nothing of me in the grains of sand held in a grasping, albeit gentle, hand. An unspoken bid on a well-hidden stone; a mere pipe dream of words, cannot alone lay claim to its heart, whose secrets drew you in. The lead is not the pencil. The ink is not the pen. The illusion, though alluring, is neither all nor enough. For it is that, not the truth, that you are enamored of. The truth, the stone, claims nothing, which in turn claims the stone. Ever-rolling, moss-free, and, by nature, alone.


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