My fists are clenched,
Grasping every memory
Of happiness
And togetherness,
Everything I miss.
When life looks grey,
And I need to smile,
My memories can hide
The bleakness,
The vastness
Of loneliness.
But, like fine sand,
They slip through my fingers.
Time plucks one,
Then another,
And another
From my fingers,
Until all that is left
Is an empty hand,
And an empty heart.
Thanks, Mikey. Yep, I have to confess that the hand is mine - my right hand. I wanted to portray the "empty-handed" type feeling, but I am afraid it did not quite come out that way.
:-) Thanks for the warning, Bob. "This guy" is writing to you from a remote village in Outer Mongolia or Turkmenistan or the Greater Sahara - where it will hopefully take a loooong time for the FBI to trace him! :-) Regards ~jnconradie
Unfortunately Nico... I showed this to my FBI friend ... he immediately did a search and found that 'this guy' is wanted in regard to the mysterious... 'missing BROOM STICK'... can you kindly send me an email with his whereabouts?... Regards Bob.
I like the contrasts and feeling in the lines. Caught 'em empty-handed, eh? ":^). I'm assuming its not your hand. If that's your hand, did you flip this shot? Great idea, in any event. Cheers, -mikey
