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 unsatisfactory. For it is better to be alive, a drum which draws the tribe to bloodlust.
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
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
listen to the distant echoes of your nostalgia; all that remain of your dreams are compressed into orbs of light, carefully placed inside an empty box; leave your house and search the idle sands of time for me, x marks the spot.
i was thinking of writing a poem from a name. this one was one of my favorites. //leonardo calix//