we are the sand on which man with his ever arrogant gait
treads. we are his tools, his land, his obstruction,
his children’s playthings, his building blocks
bounded only by the limit of his imagination.

to him, we are docile, but we are in conflict,
refusing to give way, robbing each other of the space
for breath, for drink.

we outnumber man as stars do, yet
our friction renders us subservient
to his hands.

we could be so much more.
if it were not for this
friction, this ****** friction,
we could bury oceans
and change the course of rivers.

it is my hope
that a great raptor shall beat her wings,
uniting us in her wind to rend flesh from bone,
that man’s blood shall be our water,
a medium to swallow him whole,

and we shall be dyed red like our brothers
on a former earth

who killed the god of war.