Blood of the Sand

Just above a pearl laced falls I plunged a bent hand into the silvery thrash. searching for something that had slipped from my hands. It was only a plain Riverstone but a gem none the less time after time I dipped in but only got icy fangs of the river and the blood from the sand. That was many cataracts ago... the life of the green hearted young is oft littered with ripples of fool's gold hanging onto things that are jagged and flashy things that don't mean much of anything then tossing away the precious- the plain-the special while wading into the rapids of a blistering hell Living always has the last slanted say turning vigor into weathered wisdom black velvet into tattered gray. Age walks to the edge of the falls everyday where they gaze at love slipping over the brink into the misty halo of yesterday's dream.