When Hours Watched My Hands Do Nothing

Wandering through a wastrel’s wasteland
Waist deep in my own submission
Balsam wafting soft and balmy
Etched comforts in hues familiar
Flailing aimlessly, distorting the output

Sorted seasons claim the sands
When hours watched my hands do nothing
No rush to catch the fallout
No push appealing parable
Crushing complacency

Whispers speak of lost dimensions
Mentions of mistaken meaning
Sent to distant dusty darkness
Now forsaken from the list
Kissed with known fate fulfilled

In the dance that framed the fire
Swaying ever free from doubt
Routing race of natural movement
Sand to joint on moment’s cue
Pointing to the smallest hand stroke

Squandered in a squalid square

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