Sharpness of Sandstone

Sand. The pinnacle on which we establish

the fullness of our measure, suspended,

is nothing more than uncrystallized glass

and we build, momentum, burnt, of

excess heat, from plaintive need, to see

the reflection of our limitation, mental,

as dullness of unsharpened metal, and

the self-condemnation, of which we are

Guilty

in the end, our becoming,

building as if we were stone, and hatchet

we don't fly in, like birds, shattered, no

we love our windows, as favored seats and

preen ourselves before the confines, of

our mirrors, having learned the shadows

and telltale highlights, yes, we profess that

sand is built on sand, and stone is

every bit just that and nothing more,

in the quake, Earth and pebble, both,

are space debris, and we polish, till sore;

Satisfied, that we have, gracefully, fallen.