Armand Poetry

Welcome to Armand Poetry. The poems (and other words) here are composed for my own thought and amusement. Comment and discussion are welcome. -Amore, Armand-

Thursday, February 23, 2006


My sand, if it can be any man's,
falling with a gentle sibilence,
less course than the breaking curls
of the indifferent pacific,
leaving my hand, finally,
with a soiled memory,
ghost of my own choosing,
a film which I can no longer see,
no longer feel, but will exist
until I forget. Forget my own hand,
having held at the same time
such joy and sorrow
in the curving face of a winter's moon.
When the sound falls into silence,
my hand empty,
what is it that I can call my own?


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