Sand Poem by Peter Black

Sun cooked handles held by the arms of time:
Plastic cracks, metal warps, who pays a thought; mind

The children with future dreams set afar,
Traveling the lands with gas in their cars
And wallets with papers of past kings.
I live in a place where you die if you dream.

I see the buildings, I see the people,
Nothing seems to matter but the person

And I know him, his name is simple John.
He's dumb, thinks he's smart and gets along.

Here I am sitting in piles of sand
Rubbing dirt into my sun beaten hands
And I hear a melody crying soft,
So I look around for the one that I love
But see only both the moon and the sun.

They kiss and say it is too bad for me.