I stare from sea to sea, seeing only more of those who seem to be me. Their identities trivialised and reduced to nothing more than what they can provide, I see the tiny spark within them reside in a chamber tucked so far away that will only makes it stay. Their knees crumbling and their ash still sand, nothing more stands than a grain that needs to be crushed, fed, and melted for the stained glass, revealing that spark within them so far away. Really, it isn't the grain that makes us grain; but it's quota to not make that thought sustain.
tuesday 26 november 2024 @22:21