Fling and flung, ring and run,
Our missteps vex the arrogant sun.
My words sing true for me, for you,
Yet truth eludes woe but so few.
Sand and sun, land and gun,
We fight, we scrape, and always ache.
We kill ourselves to fill our shelves,
And miss the peace our souls forsake.
Each grain we grasp, a truth we cling,
Cleaving to shards of the same damn thing.
On voices’ wings, slivers of truth will sing,
But deafened ears won’t hear a thing.
Flecks of sand gripped in hand,
Fragments of verity beyond command.
Fools rush out to scream, to shout,
And drown in echoes, truth shut out.
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