Sifting Sand

Sifting the sands of time,
methodically, through
dying eyes.
Fatigued over the years
from trying to conjure
a lasting rainbow.
Desperate to push a cloud
up an eggshell mountain
in the dark.
Forces constantly working
against the rising tide
in natural resistance.
A Trojan Horse lays supine,
rotting and empty,
too long abandoned.
Birds still fly south
for reasons of
necessary escape.
Forlorn children return
the sifted sand to
the sea.
Casting all remaining wishes,
only to wash up in time,
and betray their future.