I reach for water in the desert,
a mirage shimmering in the heat.
My lips are cracked with longing,
my heart, a vessel, pleading to be filled.

But when I kneel to drink,
I taste only sand—
grains that cut, not quench,
dust that dries the soul.

The small invasion of gentle waves,
Encroaching onto the dry trodden sands,
Whispering an unstoppable assault,
Of the moon-led tide.

As the waters destroy the mark of man,
Upon the sands,
It creates again a new blank canvas,
Waiting the new artist marks,
Applied by,
     chasing dogs,
     squealing children,
And,
     A greyed couple,
Walking towards one more,
Horizon dipping sun.

The evening is quiet, clear and fresh.
I’m walking along the shore.
I’m wearing only few clothes now,
Only your shirt and nothing more.

I’m stepping onto the damp, warm sand.
How pleasant its touch is!
I’m not in a hurry. I want to inhale
The waning of this aloof day’s breeze.

We wandered here with you beforetime,
Holding hands, breathing in time.
Love and peace were around us.
But then all went wrong, not in rhyme.

Now I’m walking along the shore.
I’m walking alone, delighting in sunset.
I’m gulping my tears and walking straight.
That must be the way it has to be instead.

I don’t know the ocean
And she doesn’t know me
Surely she remembers more
But I’m a mountains and trees girl
Patience is key

Fate always finds ways to leave you scarred,
But please stick with it.
Because somewhere you can't see,
Someone crosses the sea of time just to embrace your sensitive heart.

Just to have a single glimpse of you,
To strike a normal meet w you.
Or
Maybe it's not just them,
It's you
Waiting endlessly
Someone to search,
To reach out.

'One to look back upon the sand castles that
're left w noone in them.
As if,
Even the castles are longing for someone to remember them.

But eventually,
They would end up scattering,
Since most bury their euphoric remembrances just to remember the melancholy.

Albeit,
the sand castles' span depends upon the
native's mind;
Alas, the latter always tends to remember the tornados...
Completing defying the 'work for which he preserved so hard,
For the one who destroyed his castle?

But
Once
The native realises that it's not the tornado, it's the sand
From which the castle can be made
A thousand times
Only If he remembers to cherish
The things meant for him to cherish,
He will be truly liberated.

BUT
What if,
he wants to be stuck in his melancholic waves of tornado?
Then,
He will eventually become a slave
Of those melancholic waves,
Would be scared to defy Mob,
be anxious of past decisions,
frightened to Even live.
Or
Maybe he would suffocate in those giant waves ultimately leading his last moments
Just for him to remember-
The sand that once his hands' contained
Was now fleeting from his hands
Forever-
Or maybe that was the sand's fate.
        
                                -d'chu.

What’s wrong with me? I’ve been asking myself this all week.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I weigh questions coldly and logically. Then it hit to me.. it’s summer, silly, and I'm in classes!

A typical summer would find me tanned, sunburned, greased and unkempt, like a happy, sandy, beach hobo, my hair would be either braided or left fly-about to tangle into cotton candy wads.

My bf Peter’s learned to like fine restaurants (You’re welcome). I’d have never left the beach on my own.
“They can bring us anything,” I’d argue, looking up pitiably from my shaded, Tropitone lounge chair.

Around sundown, Peter would have to catch me, slippery oiled and brown, to comb me out and scrub me before dinner.
“Get dressed!” he’d encourage, picking out a dress suitable for dining or casino wear - “I made us a reservation.”

I’d come out of the hotel en-suite in one of their fluffy, Versace, terry towels but invariably, before I was even dry,  Peter would shake his head, growl and say, “Com-mere,” holding his arms out a little, palms up
(he’s never been very verbose), and smirking a little, I would, because his expression reminded me of Christmas.
“What about our reservation?” I’d chuckle.

This was, of course, a volunteer situation, where it was up to us all to do our best.
.
.
Songs for thus:
Girls On the Beach by Carter Cathcart
Wouldn't It Be Nice by Papa Doo Run Run
Please Let Me Wonder by Carter Cathcart

Without certainty you cannot begin
Foundations always moving are not
For on such you can never build
But only to be moved and carried
Endlessly without rest always changed
Discarding the old attempting the new
But waste and futility, no mastery nor success
What knowledge gleaned very soon irrelevant
Here today, everything's changed tomorrow
Always a toddler, crippled for life
To stand for a while the pinnacle
To walk or run, foolishness, for falls
And you break, never crawling again
But for grace the sand steady as a rock
That you may know sand shift in winds
And to search for rock before you build
But not boast the death of certainty