Slipping Sands

We are mortals with misguided reason

For hopelessly hoping and hording beliefs.

We walk with heavy feet—we prowl—

In our darkest hour, ear to dwindling howls—

The night is our blackened season.

Beneath our beds, the demons claim,

And flicker signs of haunted beings.

We do our best, with human hands,

To forge happiness from slipping sands—

We romanticize the fumbling flame.

In our hearts we are self-centered

And selfish—we are a step away

From being evil and abhorred—

Altruistic desire will be ignored—

If the path is never ventured.

     DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com