The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories
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The Empty Glass

Kneeling by the stream
Water rushing through fingers
Soft sand drifting by
Like stretch marks, like preambles mumbled
In a vain attempt to get my head around “The Waste Land,”
Lost before I can remember
Because the fleeting moment does not abide…
It has always been thus,
Never smart enough or quick enough
Not good or bright enough
To fathom what so quickly passes,
Though it is worse now, much worse
Because the glass is almost empty.