everything I create
is mere dust in my hands
spilling out on the floor
everything I build
becomes ghostly shapes of hazy mist
my presence is but a quiet, grating noise
and I'm just sitting there
while the works of my hands
collapse and fade into wind
nothing more but whispers
ripples in the sea
torn apart by a subtle breeze
and I cannot do anything but watch
soon, this all will be nothing
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