It cuts like a knife;
It bleeds.
Freely, it moves;
Loosely, I walk.

Why, in such moments of mediocrity,
the everyday passage, is what you see,
but a grasp of what is?

Loosely, I hold this;
Like sand, it runs freely through the cracks
of my fingers.

Like blood, it is thick.

Like most things, it is misunderstood.