The Glass
The sand is pouring soo fast.
I feel incredibly entombed.
I yearn to break the hours surrounding me,
the way I got that wound.
And even though, I am all alone,
in the dark, in the estranged, I am free.
The blackened tree is healing,
and timidly I'm becoming me.
So when you wonder why your advances are startling,
perplexing, and bizarrely sweet.
Understand that this hesitance reeks of the hopeful.
The dreams, that a dreamer doth seek.
And then, unexpectantly, you looked on me.
In the way that a hungry girl fasts.
And my body weeps as it always should have,
I am, but the sweating glass.
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