Sand Through His Fingers Poem by Cynthia Buhain-baello

Like a furious whirlwind turning around
A scattered force carrying debris,
An aimless shot hits from the ground
With no purpose reached definitely.

Such is the man who runs after wealth
Picking at chances in every turn
Like a fox that runs after every chicken
He ends up with nothing, yet never learns.

He plays people up like a deck of cards
Mind schemes in his manipulation,
Getting his way, he does not find it hard
But still he ends up with so much confusion.

Like sand through his fingers, wealth slips away
The tighter he holds them, the faster they go.
As Emptiness shrouds him at the end of day
The word Contentment he may never know.