The cracked concrete drank the heat
from his back as he leaned and listened.
Staring blankly at the street,
all he heard was relentless whispers:
snowflakes rustled on the ground,
and the whole world glistened.
He saw no beauty in the night;
he closed his eyes, and shivered.
Curious how even crumbling cement
was so much stronger than he.
"What am I really?", he wondered.
He was reminded of a metaphor,
but 'dust in the wind' seemed generous;
those who are moved are the lucky ones among us.
The rest are more like sand.
They creep along the ground, and watch
as those they aspire to be fly by:
those few who are given wings
by the passing breeze of the infinite hand.
He was just a clumsy grain,
watching them all fly away
devoid of tears to cry,
and out of words to pray.
And so he simply stood and listened,
waiting for a better day.
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