As a greying grass of the day awaits moonshine
A moss covered stone awaits but a long summer
The Earth wanders through its destined orbit
Circling a stormy Sun, oblivious to the life within.
Life is but that bubble around crashing tides
Game for a few ashore, for beholders the only sight.
Tides, the first responders to ancient rhythms
Rhythms, inevitable; which the heart gladly skips.
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