06-20-2016, 08:15 PM
I don't write poetry all that often, sometimes I'm moved to do so though. This is an older piece and Sharps play with form has in turn inspired me to share my own:
An Hourglass Figure
Fine grains of sand sliding
through
my fingers
caught whipping
against my fine skin
caught in my green eyes
blinking away the painful tears
peering through the grit of
the smoke screen trying
to grasp what was
to see what is
grasping
fine grains
of sand in my hand
sliding through my fingers
(fluid as your silkendark hair)
the light sand scraping my skin
tears stinging my eyes as
I stand
a blind soul
in a whirlwind
with an empty
hand