Direction

Grains are lost,
sifting with the passage,
save for times imprinted,
a shell hardened,
clamping heavy in the current.

It’s isolated inside,
but flowing on the outside.

To surface is to break tension,
protecting from the heavy heat
unfiltered by flat terrain.
It’s comfortable at 23,
but conditions will rise.

To 30 and on,
synchronized with mortal clocks,
the large hand spins wildly
in the plane of all existence.

Flowing is the tide
to sink through the sands.
Faster in speed.
Slower in thought.
Decisive in action.

Drive the shell into the surface
sanding away protection
to fight fears of age,
buried, submerged.

Drop to 23 underneath to find
a balance in comfort but wear.
The pearl inside hides
in a divisive cocktail,
anxious in successive direction.

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