Quicksand
Trying to find hope in a quicksand world
is hard when hope is like the clouds above;
looked towards but never touched;
as much as we must want.
And the sands of this world feel
like tiny hungry hands feeding a patient mouth;
fists over tiny fists they pull in what is left of us.
While hope flies above vaporous and too high to touch.
Tiny fingers heartlessly pulling
with the persistence of children’s wants.
Sewing words that drag us further into a hungry maw;
using words that claim to be from another’s heart.
Familiar weights tearing parts away
from the very soul of hope and us.
A soul still mending from almost before being lost;
peeling away newly laid self-worth like flesh from bone.
Scraps of meat left to be plucked by carrion birds.
Scraped leftovers after the lions’ take;
taken to fill a world whose hunger we could never sate.
Bones left to whiten in the harsh noon sun.
Sightless caves watching as the next in line comes;
to be claimed by this insatiable world,
while others blindly wait their turn.
Copyright © Michael David Sheridan | Year Posted 2022
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