There are poems in the beach sand,
Eroding in the wind and waves,
Left behind there by ephemeral imaginations,
That concern neither the crabs sidling over them,
Nor the rich red sunsets,
Nor the clouds hanging low in the romantic depression
That only poets bother with,
Nor the sandpipers skimming over the waves;
But they will never be completed,
Foaming away into the sea,
The poet's illusions drained away,
Into the eternal indifference that is the universe.
Comments