FOSSILS OF SAND

Moving through the wings of time,

Traversing its ways,

With its temporary permanancy,

And a slowly speedily pace,

Greeting the lives of water,

Both dangerous and pretty,

With hues and greys,

Granting them survival,

A supportive haven,

On planet blue.

The present becomes a past,

The past an epoch,

But your treading goes on,

With blue-green abrasives,

And the dead and living too,

Deeper you pave,

Greater you crave,

For the first and the last lives there,

From huge to micro.

Pretty your patience,

And stealthy footsteps,

Youthfully retired,

Moving untired,

Like an unpretentious old man,

With worldly reserves,

And protruding nerves,

Of beings and sea,

Just like life goes on…

FOSSILS OF SAND

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