King of Sandcastles

Dust in the mouth
From a trail long travelled
Turns to mud
As I swallow.

The patron saint of sandcastles
And all that crumbles
Comes to me in my sleep
And holds me together—

I dream of diamonds
And glass;
Those things forced
By pressure
Into cohesive wholes,
Their thousand pieces
Congealed to one clear mass—

Sometimes I refract light
Or it shoots through me, unhindered.
I tell myself I am solid,
Melted together, immutable.

But I feel the pieces shift; At night
I am still sand
Praying to saints as I crumble,

And I wake up with mud in my mouth,
Old wounds coming apart
Until I force myself back together.

hell.
Next to Godliness