The sound of the surf is steadier than me.
I am a fit of starts and stops; present
and just barely distinguished with a look.
I am the foam on the sea, no restful design.
All things are broked and retracing the same routes.
Crashing or caring, all the objects are tagged.
Each label instructs the stranger on ways
to taper their impressions of nullity.
There is no call to let one piece of trash
roll back to sea before another.
All the pieces of discarded times tumble beneath
the surface of debris and fall roughed up on the beach.
I am a voice that can't compete with the winds.
I shout to see if I can over-sound the ocean.
There's only room for one of us on this beach,
and I see you have a reservation,
a favorite table has been set at your reach.
I hear you pounding on the sides of my head.
I can't be present like you: one day you come,
the next day you go: I love you for your indifference.
Can I be your steady?
Can I steal your heart from a king you honour.
Proteus dressed in a suit of blubber,
if only to find heat and warmth
despite the fact that I have lost interest in your purposes.
The trail of clouds obstructs my mentor.
The sun has been available today,
to those that made the trip outside,
to bake or broil beneath the cosmic furnace.
I have no call to doubt that the clouds
depend more on me than I thought possible.
They get their character from my imagination.
They are easy to describe to the winds.
Each gust tallied each thought upwards and away.
Even further for the Bards lusting after the waves wakes.
That last thought was a lie; if not for these misconceptions
I would have no cause to doubt that all this life is but a dream.
Life is many days, this too will end.
