Wednesday, February 24, 2016

prose poem 24 | of sand and men

With each step, he loses a piece of himself. Every forward motion against the ragged winds of entropy, comes at a cost.

Ephemeral moments perpetually transcribe into imperfect memories. Memories, as always, remain unimmune to thermodynamics.

A wet failing machine is he; wet failing machines are we.

Sand grains fall irregularly… but on average speak honestly of time. What of irregular men?


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