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James Jarrett Sep 2021
They lived as ghosts
Between the light and the dark
Leading their lives as dead men
Gone without the funeral
Buried beneath headstones without dates
No green fields to tread upon
And see their names
No flowered coffin to cry upon
They were the chosen
The few
To fight
Chasing the wraiths of freedom
A ghost as elusive as themselves
Dedicated to Bobby Sands 1954-1981, A warrior who gave his life the day he took his oath
Mark Wanless May 2021
a day on the beach
empty sands stretch with lovers
and the heartships sail
“We play at paste,
Till qualified for pearl,
Then drop the paste,
And deem ourself a fool.
The shapes, though, were similar,
And our new hands
Learned gem-tactics
Practising sands.”

-Emily Dickinson.
The Dybbuk Jun 2020
I am boiling and bursting forth
from black sands where the waves whisper.
I am born again,
with the ferocity of ten-million suns,
and all the serenity of
learned men will remain
For it is better to be alive,
a drum which draws the tribe
to bloodlust.
Written on a nudist beach
Bhill Jun 2020
who really knows
who really understands
how is it true
or not
does the homeless person know what time it is
did the ant you stepped on feel anything
the sunset shared by millions across the globe, was it appreciated
was it valued
desert winds, stirring up the ancient sands, is it admired
is it honored
waters in the clouds, falling with raw force to the earth, is it glorified
is it
how do you know
how do you know

Brian Hill - 2020 # 168
Well, is it?
We stretch out our hands,
Waiting for salvation.

We watch the dripping sands
Of the hourglass with poignant resignation.

Our society demands
Of us to disregard those in isolation.

But the isolation is the only thing that understands
That this life is really nothing but eternal damnation.
This week has been nothing but stressful, and I'm on the edge of losing my ******* mind.
annh Dec 2019
Time lapses, as quick sands sift from flask to flask,
Half empty - a flick of the wrist - half full;
Hours of glass, ground into powder, measuring my frailty.

'He dreamed of deserts and great empty cities and imagined he could feel the minutes and hours of his life running through him, as though he were nothing but an hourglass of flesh and bone.'
- Laini Taylor, Strange the Dreamer
Undead Nomad Nov 2019
Golden essence shifts through my fingers, spilling on the ground, shifting over my feet.

A gentle breeze passes through, the sands become its body, emulating its spirit and casting its shadow.

The glittering glow sings to the sun a melody pleasing to the eyes.
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