• Sweat glistening, frustration building with every passing minute –
    the tick of the clock, growing ever louder, echoes clearly
    through the crisp quiet of excruciating night.
    Grains of sand, once abundant in number
    as the dunes of the Sahara, sift through
    the cracks of black nothingness,
    together sinking with
    the remains of the
    precious night left
    in my wake.
    of sand are
    lost artifacts
    of old– shameful relics
    of forgotten regret, guilty
    stupidity are recovered, only intended
    to be buried once more as the night slips
    past the coming dawn. Run out with the sand are the last
    few hours before the light of the golden sun breaks over the mountain
    horizon – exposing the dreadful truth of the morning’s findings in bitter mockery.