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You towered beside me
on the dry compact dirt.

Seizing the pail and shovel
from my hands,
you dug into
the unyielding earth.

Patiently you formed
turrets, windows and a bridge.
Your fingers molded and shaped
this gleaming golden citadel,
a silent testimony
to your determined creativity.

It is a home fit for a queen,
bordered by the silent silver waters,
and guarded by the unwavering stare,
of the blind jealous sun.

You embellished it
with flags, shells and pebbles —
the finishing touches
to your creation ….

Spawn of your imagination.

You turned and presented it to me,
expecting my consent and approval,
but you’re not gifted Pygmalion
and I’m not the Galatea of your illusions,
who will meekly cater to
your needs and satisfaction.

The daylight is fading
and the tide is coming.

Your castle is crumbling.

As the waves are advancing,
your fortress flounders and falls.
It mournfully ceases to be
as it is washed away,
by the raging unforgiving sea.