The sand grain witness

The sand. the sand grain desert sand. a wind sweeps along
an arid earth, takes it in its mouth to satisfy its desire for

moisture. with blinded eyes, it seeks the darkness in the
light. it moves in a circular motion, walks sideways to

feel its shadow; losing itself on the crest of a dune, the
shadow in the depth of a sea; so drowns the moisture;

a prophet man sows the sand, reaps the grain; under the
silence of the sun. he breathes the rain, brushes his hand

along the desert texture, his fingers paint his face. he does
not seek the false truth. speaks with a languid artesian well

voice. he eats the night air, he is not afraid. crosses a barren
land like a child’s pull toy; the heat fill his sandals with cold

from desolation; his soul dangles from a watch chain; the
timepiece glass cracks from a second hand ticking backwards,

backwards. rest he bequests in an oasis, the mirage envelopes;
thin, fragile layers of imagination tempt him, hunger kisses him,

he eats the fruit, sown in the cold desolation of his desert soul
willing time forward; seeking to leave the gritty reality of barrenness,

moisture seeping slowly into a body desiccated from
the journey across the sandy desert his life had become

feels once again the warm coursing of hope through
a heart cold and empty

startles at the rhythm of his heart; remembering the beat of life
long denied from too much pain barely endured

the sand shifting as he moves again
wind gentle with the music not heard for so long

movement forcing him over the last dune
out of the frozen heat and back into

a landscape painted by colors
of a life to be lived.

Copyright © 01/31/2013 lance sheridan®