Grains of tiny glass
do not slide gently
through idle hands.

They shear, burn,
embed themselves
in droplets of rouge;
they subtly coalesce
into a pool of doubt.

These pensive moments
do not glide idly by—
they wound in passing,
hiss their apathy
at wanton indecision.

Would the necessary words
flow so freely, so true,
as these futile moments
lost within words unsaid?

It's too early to tell her,
but life won't let me wait:
time pulling like gravity.

And these searing shards
which martyr closed fists
are how regrets are made.

04/12/2003

Posted on 04/12/2003
Copyright © 2025 D. Xavier Bari