warm sand in my hands
on a beach by the abyss;
in silence eternity rests
gazing into the depths.
today the time bent again
to a moment under the sun;
memories of an evening
penetrated my thick skull.
innocence can but linger
as stories become a crime;
of dreams I am the weaver
in the brutal hands of time.
as I get up to walk the sands
I know I have done wrong;
blood running into my hands
I give in for the saddest song.
hear, dear
heavens near
the seas of aether
remember these hands
of distant,
nonexistent lands?
rare is the touch
that reaches
the soul
the soul
without
time and space
is the heart of identity
is the heart of identity
