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Sand is the Avatar of Fear.
Soft, too soft, the sands lie dormant, lie
Passive, lie waiting, lie--
This is the ground which gives way beneath falling weight,
Which catches the sure foot,
But longs with cavernous mouth
Covered by veneer for the weight
Of one in free fall, who has let go.

A story of Sand:

Fearful, the tearing away of the supports, that
Awful moment when the guiding rails are
Gone, simply missing, torn from their positions of safety
And nowhere to be found. That terrible moment
When the alarm rings unexpectedly, when the
Tool slips, when you lay out a page of words in your mind
And consider it. The Lord said to weigh the cost, so
You do. You turn it over in your mind, front and back,
Perusing the contents. You feel the heat of an alien, fictional sun
And the cool grass and the cold waters, you know the
Faces of this story's heroes, and you taste the air and
Live in their hearts in a tiny home, knowing them, being the
Dark Gods in the Blood that whisper instinct to them.

There will come a time when there is only silence, and
You will learn that there are too many of us.
When the chainsaw slips and the page is ignored,
And when the meeting is over and the room is empty,
You will catch a hint of that truth in the eyes of those
Who console you. There are too many of us:
Today, a young page walks away brokenhearted. Pursue him?
Tomorrow comes another.
Then the catwalk is gone and you're falling down
Into the sand with sudden force
And She has her meal at last.
I haven't written much in a while, have I?
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Submitted on
April 15, 2012
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