The Bind

They call this common sense,

In places where common sense

Is considered an art.

This is the bind

That has twined since the start.

Whispers of summer's swift end

Are insincere, they know no bounds.

They are like me, they don't understand.

This is the bind

That roots in my hand.

What other surprises hide lurking,

Waiting to reappear, and make friends

With the stones slowly sinking in sand?

This is the bind

That ends, that ends, that ends.