Fireflies dance over a vast ocean of silence.
The silver bow pock-marked and tormented
By the ever-changing stillness of everything.
Bruised and battered, just like my weary self.
The wind blowing through the grass, whispering
To me like the faeries that dance on their leaves,
And leave behind the seeds of beauty.
What are we but the tides of the sea,
Coming and going, carrying life in the very
Breadth of our being. For we are nothing
But the dust that settles on the soul of misery.
