On a distant cloudy shore, of sand and sweat from days of yore, of blood and tears and conquests made, of crimson promises with lives were made.
I fill my hands with the golden sand, from the mother of the land, with my eyes I see and mouth I gasp, for I cannot hold them within my grasp.
I scream for I know as time does pass, all shall slip from within my grasp, I now know that I cannot save, a single grain from the pitless waves.
My mind has now become my hands, and moments are now my sand, and as I age and time does pass, all shall be lost from within its grasp.
Hold tight my friends who hear me well, and be not afraid of my troubled hell, be not afraid of this mirage I speakm for there's more to this then "hands and minds are weak".
We know that moments shall slip away, throughout nights and within days, but like the sand we try to grasp, hold them with a tighter clasp.
The sands will leave marks within our hands, memories of distant lands, and moments will leave marks in our minds, and turn to memories of different times.
Time cannot be held by man.
Moments will be lost like sand.
But hold tight cause then they'll be,
Scars or marks called memory.
8:51 p.m. - 2004-05-10
Recent entries:
An Athiests Prayer - 2010-11-22
An apple on a tree - 2010-11-07
At work and bored. - 2010-02-08
Faces - 2009-10-17
Time for a rebirth - 2009-10-16
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