No matter how much I try to forget, my hands till tremble to set. With such little progress, life seems like a sandbox with shovels and pales still forming the castle’s head. A memoir that could of taken frame, something the abstract would be fond to lament. Still, I see reflections of a fragile man, easily shattered by the breeze in hand. Pieces fall and lay in wait, to be found and easily misplaced. Still, some solace finds rest within my restless breast. To the far east winds, behind westward skies, My mistakes will not impede the reflection that changes your face. To inifinite locales my shards will travel, to the earth my love will still scatter.