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Mortal Grains
Time will slip from all our grasps,
Like grains of sand weathered
From the rock that is their prison.
Slowly and steadily in the end while,
Chaotic and erratic in the beginning.
In youth our hands are too full
Fooled by the abundance
Lacking the necessary foresight
We bash against the world,
Carried by life’s rocky stream.
In old age we see what little is left,
And only give away what we must.
Those grains lost are found again.
For time destroys but also builds,
Giving new life from our remains.
Some are born of volcanic lava,
Some of sand dunes and beaches.
Others still, metamorphose midway.
We are the products of our environment.
So which rock are you and how long will you last?
