How about Sand?

The Lord (of the manor, not to imply blasphemy) said Let There Be Light
but the power was out and the lamp didn't turn on
so He (again, implying nothing bad) walked through His dark bedroom
past a lover that may or may not have been his wife
who might or might not have been his long lost 5th cousin
And stumbled into a nightstand bumping his head on a dresser
Trembling, reaching for a switch to illuminate his mistakes
He found it wasn't there in the form he anticipated, left bare by
an Incompetent Electrician, well, not really incompetent, just distracted
Mostly by the imminent birth of his first born (hopefully, for him) son
But partly by his struggle with debt due to a lack of luck
And anyway, maybe he couldn't be blamed for leaving the switch off and the bare wires exposed
Although, to be 100% honest, that doesn't change the fact that His Lordship's body completed the circuit

Which was more than a tad depressing, seeing as he had a tee-time scheduled for only 45 minutes into that strange and mysterious, abstract length of time known among the majority of the population of Earth as The Future.

Unfortunately, this is an obviously fictitious amalgam of poetry and prose, made so obvious by the rather silly fact
That the absence of electric current in The Lord's was established way back in line two.

To be 100% honest for the second time though, this conclusion was brought about by the author resuming work on this poetryose a decent length of time after he left off of it, and without fully reading through the original part.

His Authorship was always a rather silly fellow, and careless in his work.
Well, not completely careless, he fancied himself a tireless admirer of rhythm and rhyme
But also somewhat of a devotee to those Free Verse poets who mercilessly chop and amputate poetry
To stay fresh and new (though coincidentally making themselves stinking with the scent of ink-blood)

But yes, anyway, the most Glorious-ish Author of this semi-Brave attempt at literature (no, dangit, poetry, wait, is that literature? does that count?) thinks himself to be an O-Kay poet
Be that as it may, he probably still has a higher opinion of himself than is prudent
Or perhaps not, considering his long-standing self-esteem and self-mocking issues

Although, really who gives a crap?
/psychobabble = end/


[The Author would like to here insert an announcement; he will in the future be labeling his non-poetry attempts at writing with the label "Prose" due to the fact that "Essay" is not always fulfilling his needs, seeing as his writing has been changed by some of his reading of late, owing an especially large debt to the author of Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, whose name currently escapes *this* author. Ah well. Good sir (I'm pretty sure) I credit you.]