waves that sigh
are best recorded in dreams
where their meaning is not
obscure.
still we continue
chiselling words in sand
have them washed away by Leviathan
only to begin again.
but comes the day we drop the chisel
and grope after the silvery tail
disappearing into the sea.
and oh, what of the scales left in our hands
opalescent bits of glass
through which our self may be mirrored
darkly, darkly,
as the night from which
this monster came.
