I grasp at the sand as it spills through my fingers, spilling itself on itself.
The grains are innumerable but desperate I count them, single grain after grain, this til my voice rasps with the burden, the burden of counting, the terrible aching, the aching of hoping, and the forlornness of hope...
Shifting and penetrable, the violence is sudden, the wind in its rushing, and taken I am and moulded to nature, thus I become.
There is grit in my teeth in the aching of waiting and tired of it all, I gently succumb.
I’m really not quite sure if my words are symbolism or metaphor….
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