"The Plea" - Bahamas AI Art
©A. Derek Catalano
Sinking Sand
(Sinking slowly into poverty)
In the beginning, the ground felt steady,
Firm beneath the weight of dreams,
But somewhere, in silence, cracks emerged,
Thin as whispers, light as seams.
A missing bill, a dwindling stash,
Harmless debts I thought would pass—
The ground shifted slow, like a muted quake,
A gentle tremor in the grass.
It started like footsteps on gravel soft,
Pebbles breaking under heel,
And with each misstep, each missed chance,
The slipping earth felt more real.
I’d tell myself, “It’s just a phase;
Things will settle, sure as sand,”
But every step brought sinking deeper,
Pulled gently down by an unseen hand.
It’s a steady slide, not a sudden fall,
A stretch and pull of a fraying thread.
Days melt to nights, months slip by,
And dreams that spark grow dim instead.
I pawned my hopes in pieces small—
A ring, a coat, a watch, a pen,
The marks of life turned into coin,
Gone for less than I paid back then.
One day, I watched as walls grew bare,
Stripped of what I’d held close and dear,
And the echo that bounced off hollow walls
Was the only sound left to hear.
Voices once lively turned hushed and cold;
We tiptoed around like ghosts in a cage.
Where once our lives had roared with song,
Now we whispered low, concealing rage.
Bills like chains, unbreakable links,
And late fees like weights tied around my feet,
The cost of time I couldn’t buy,
The hidden hands that pulled my defeat.
A single missed payment—then another—
The line between debt and despair grew thin.
Each phone call brought that panic back:
Was this the day they’d come to win?
Once, I thought only the foolish fell,
But now I know that ground gives way
Even for those who walk with care,
Who save, who scrape, who hope and pray.
It starts as soft as sinking sand,
Until the ankles are wrapped, then the knees—
And when you’re waist-deep in poverty’s pull,
It’s hard to fight the tightening squeeze.
Some say, "Why not swim for shore?"
As if the edge could be in sight,
But when the sand pulls harder still,
The shore fades off like the day from night.
And the dreams I kept, those grains of gold,
Run through my fingers, slipping free.
Each hope a shadow, faint and cold,
Each dollar a ghost of what used to be.
They don’t see the heavy dark,
The thousand pounds that a penny wears.
They don’t feel the cuts, small and sharp,
The sting of asking strangers’ stares.
Pride worn down to a battered bone,
Knuckles clenched on what’s left to hold,
The lurch of shame that comes and goes,
The courage crushed, the heart grown old.
Each dawn brings with it broken promises,
The “better day” that never arrives,
And in the dim light of early morning,
I feel the sand where hope survives.
I watch it shift beneath my weight,
See it pool around like grasping hands,
And understand what they always knew—
There’s no escape from sinking sands.
But if I go down, I’ll go down seeing,
Knowing each grit of fate’s demand,
And if I drown, I’ll drown believing
That I still stood tall in sinking sand.
For dreams may wash away in time,
And pennies fail to understand,
But somewhere deep, beneath this ground,
I’ll be unbroken—sinking, but grand.
Firm beneath the weight of dreams,
But somewhere, in silence, cracks emerged,
Thin as whispers, light as seams.
A missing bill, a dwindling stash,
Harmless debts I thought would pass—
The ground shifted slow, like a muted quake,
A gentle tremor in the grass.
It started like footsteps on gravel soft,
Pebbles breaking under heel,
And with each misstep, each missed chance,
The slipping earth felt more real.
I’d tell myself, “It’s just a phase;
Things will settle, sure as sand,”
But every step brought sinking deeper,
Pulled gently down by an unseen hand.
It’s a steady slide, not a sudden fall,
A stretch and pull of a fraying thread.
Days melt to nights, months slip by,
And dreams that spark grow dim instead.
I pawned my hopes in pieces small—
A ring, a coat, a watch, a pen,
The marks of life turned into coin,
Gone for less than I paid back then.
One day, I watched as walls grew bare,
Stripped of what I’d held close and dear,
And the echo that bounced off hollow walls
Was the only sound left to hear.
Voices once lively turned hushed and cold;
We tiptoed around like ghosts in a cage.
Where once our lives had roared with song,
Now we whispered low, concealing rage.
Bills like chains, unbreakable links,
And late fees like weights tied around my feet,
The cost of time I couldn’t buy,
The hidden hands that pulled my defeat.
A single missed payment—then another—
The line between debt and despair grew thin.
Each phone call brought that panic back:
Was this the day they’d come to win?
Once, I thought only the foolish fell,
But now I know that ground gives way
Even for those who walk with care,
Who save, who scrape, who hope and pray.
It starts as soft as sinking sand,
Until the ankles are wrapped, then the knees—
And when you’re waist-deep in poverty’s pull,
It’s hard to fight the tightening squeeze.
Some say, "Why not swim for shore?"
As if the edge could be in sight,
But when the sand pulls harder still,
The shore fades off like the day from night.
And the dreams I kept, those grains of gold,
Run through my fingers, slipping free.
Each hope a shadow, faint and cold,
Each dollar a ghost of what used to be.
They don’t see the heavy dark,
The thousand pounds that a penny wears.
They don’t feel the cuts, small and sharp,
The sting of asking strangers’ stares.
Pride worn down to a battered bone,
Knuckles clenched on what’s left to hold,
The lurch of shame that comes and goes,
The courage crushed, the heart grown old.
Each dawn brings with it broken promises,
The “better day” that never arrives,
And in the dim light of early morning,
I feel the sand where hope survives.
I watch it shift beneath my weight,
See it pool around like grasping hands,
And understand what they always knew—
There’s no escape from sinking sands.
But if I go down, I’ll go down seeing,
Knowing each grit of fate’s demand,
And if I drown, I’ll drown believing
That I still stood tall in sinking sand.
For dreams may wash away in time,
And pennies fail to understand,
But somewhere deep, beneath this ground,
I’ll be unbroken—sinking, but grand.
©A. Derek Catalano/ChatGPT
