The Economics of Sand Castle Real-estate

It seems dire at first glance:

A collection of limbs made of disparate grains

sat with resignation by a shore’s invasion march,

awaiting though never pursuing a future collapse;

a temporary life.


Chipped from stone to be less than its whole,

stumbling over the bare minimum of atoms,

falling into those with scattered pieces,

and the castle that emerges rarely equals the parts;

an inelegant time.


Put stock into sand.

Is it shocking when it crumbles?

Placed trust in rusted bones.

Is it shocking when they halt?

In the freeze of oxidation coughed up from a manakin’s breath,

is it shocking to find love is as cold as was predicted?


Reflections on the lake of consciousness.

The beaches are wiped of debris,

fabric of being drifting to newfound shores

where Locke proclaims a victory.

A temporary life.


A graceful arm intertwined in a crippled companion

comes as the wistful touch of a ghost;

merely a whisper against skin,

tingling the hairs as a surge of receding light

where a spirit was buoyed by its appointed lighthouse.

It bleeds into vision clear enough to regret,

yet obscured to where it cannot be trusted.

The question of hindsight needs no and has no answer.

An inelegant time.


Remembered only in creeping phases,

the faces seen and encountered in voice.

Temporary lies in a temporary life.

New shores beckon.

The victory is short-lived.

( ❤ Mitch)

Manifest Nothing

Gray expanse cluttered with industry and broken wheels.

I read in a book and had it placed in my head that it’ll take me somewhere someday.


The words tumble out the same as they always have;

Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

wilting violently in the heat of a southern sun.


Every bump on the path is laid with no intention beside potential derision

as a puppet master shakes their head at the twisting of their name.

Grit those teeth and keep blood below the boiling point

because there’s said to be promise beyond the flat green totality.


And it screams in the radio when a different song is playing,

or in the hum of the engine struggling to deal with the potholes:

The everlasting beckoning of a dream that’s not there;

A future that’s rusted around its waist.


These passing structures attest to a past that is drifting by.

The white of the cold months wipes the dull slate clean,

readying for a year of conquest with the return of the most vacant bright color.

In a cycle it turns in time with the shifting of the night;

A repetitive fable of a place set in nowhere with an aspiration for somewhere less.


Grow here, grow old, grow away, wither quietly,

sinking dispassionately in a heap of southern sand.


The gray stretches on, having no limitations on its sprawling limbs,

Every nondescript station a dot on a broader horizon as exhaust climbs higher.

Submerged in a quiet desperation do I find my numbing mind,

the details that were never there magnified in their empty scale.

I swear at this point I must have been a passenger to every tree in the land,

their bark the conduit of the hollow myths currency is traded for.


This rust is rubbing off onto the fabric of these bones.

There’s no boundary to the sky so there’s no telling why I saw an end to the stars.

The roaring nothing is never lost on my ears.

( ❤ Mitch)