Seeping sand through cracks of glass,
Turn it over and watch it spill across
Your hands,
Your face running dry.
(Trail your tongue past parched lips and
Realize the words will no longer come.)

Ravines cut through stone,
Rivers pour from these veins and
You finally feel alive.

(Or a skewed degree of such,
For you've forgotten what life,
Stability was like.)

"Wrap it up."
The words continue to dance through your mind,
"Please," she begs,
And you cry with her.

(But when you're pouring ventricles through ducts,
What do you have left within?
Nothing but rusted park benches and
Arid grass from the country.)

Dig your feet into the mud,
Compose against the blast that
Wracks through your bones.

(But the shadowed mind poses the most
Perilous of threats;
With the ability to fill veins with
Lead,
If you must fill lungs for her to tread,
How do you continue when the congealing ocean drowns?)

And even when you've found what you were
Looking for all along,
How can you possibly survive the wait?

Because hands can only mean so much,
Tears will run out and
Hearts will run dry.
These songs will be decay and
The country will burn down.

(Craters in our hearts, our minds are
All that we have left.)