A Pome a Day for a Year

Of Sand Dunes Etched

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Published on

Rising dirty yellow rolling hills of battered
stone remnants, soft underfoot, hard undershoe
rise up and down like stagnant waves
of the inevitability of time.

Once magnificent cliffs
reduced and torn asunder, invisible forces
pull at every direction,
stretching and kneading and breaking
this natural facade.

Fingers through the hourglass of the world
pour particles outwards,
over lost souls.
Withered be the future,
hallowed by thy present,
forgotten be your past.

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