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Idle Hands

She drew a small circle
in the burning sands of time
To convey her vehement message
of truth
A merit so worthy of honor and praise
from the ones
Who gathered to survey
her prelude

They watched as she tenderly touched
each grain of sand
With her fingertips, so delicately fine
Each one holding their breath
to see what would happen
Wondering if the circle would affect
their own time

Each delicate movement,
each brush of her fingers
Brought forth
new triumphant sighs
As each relieved eye in the crowd
looked and cheered on
When no change to themselves
was applied

In one final swift movement
she finished with flourish
the small circle she had drawn
with her hands
The world as they knew it
disappeared into nothing
Like the sands of time,
they had allowed her
to command

© 2010 Neva Flores – Changefulstorm