The effort we make to walk, to carry the load as the sun burns our unprotected hopes is equal to the unending thirst for justice.

No matter the inner pull or external push to excellence, there is a gurgling that constantly gathers in the throat of our existence, attempting to bury the thirst beneath footsteps of faith barely touching the sands of hell.

No one but us knows the sound and the choke of fahrenheit hope that pours past memories into fantasy sketches that become murals of future realities.

Still the gurgling grows so that none need hold their breath to drown out the moment of now. It is a drowning so common that we’ve no need to question shallow water or preservation, because the moment has passed, we have died, yet we are not interred.

The parting we see sleeps in the hymns of yesterday and like this moment, doesn’t exist.

Nothing poured stays yet there is no effort more worthy to take up, than the emptying of one’s heart into the sieve of mankind, that the sands of love be the faith we stand upon bare, our footsteps directed home.