These Words are Sand

All my words are sand
angry hands on hourglass hips
you are fully turned

as the sand carries
your desert scent,

fire from a hard-struck flint,
as the world burns
that white-knuckled grip.

Heat and pressure

[no diamonds made]

upon that glassy-surface,
regret is poured to boil
– scars are traded.

An hourglass curves
to the sky,
then to the earth, and
in those curves,
the hours pass
and I regret the sand.

©️ Obol, 2020.

Image artist unknown.

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