Worth
What have I not given to you?
That I still posses?
That I still have left to give?
Pulling from pockets deep,
the sand that runs through-
the fingers of my extended hands.
An offering.
Yet the grains are spirited away by the wind.
Before ever they fall to the ground-
that my feet are firmly planted upon.
Or not…
As unstable as the rolling-
of the waves.
Upon distant shore-
they break.
My spirit fights that same fate.
As I strive to give more of me,
than is mine to give.
For I am yours-
and you mine…
But is sharing not the hardest part of all?
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