and patch shells on the grainy walls
(of our shanty castles)
and say, to passers-by,
"oh, those are the windows"
Confused, they'll walk on
and find us silly
in our fantasies;
unfitting, in a world of concrete
we'll shrug our shoulders and build on
(there's still so much sand -
we can build an empire!)
but wall upon wall
we lose our way
within our city of castles
and soon we leave, too.
it's cold -
what good are sand walls
against the evening wind?
abandoned, our little town of magic castles
(with empty windows)
is swept by the evening tide
and fades
in the salty apocalypse
of the waning sandpatch
