Less Than Abstract

Swaying to sleep fearfully one last time:
still asleep is where we feel safety.
Addicted to what makes being for each,
in inevitable loss, maybe stillborn is bliss.

Fragile ash statue, shattering and slowly
collapsing to the curled breeze.

Entwine to circles, dancing haphazard,
spiral to something less than abstract.

The tiny rocks and the tiny seconds,
seemingly just insignificant,
could so surely and completely form
every small rough edge within its time.

The cold water calmly withdraws.
The sand of change hastly recoils.

So soon to go, depressing, beautiful.
So soon to turn, so soon life runs.