One could be it, but empty of blood.
One leaking color, rosey or dull.
The crash comes, colliding our currents,
together they attack, divide, sing;
but in the day or night,
man alone equals movement.

I hear everyone
speaking all at once,
few words, many accusations
and disappointments.

How could I forget?
To know
one can move
and feel
I clasp my hands,
praying either
the memory
or the sand
will stick.