Of Mice - 2011/07/06

Crystal clear waves now lick
At a stark white sandy shore
Soft air reminds me of times
I so lived in long lost lore
Armies of palm trees swaying
Mark my vision that crumbles
As the undercurrent draws me
Towards reality that tumbles

A full moon illuminates dark
Our companion in pitch black
While pools of soft twilight
Weaken us for another attack
Hoots of owls diving at prey
Mark great tragic succession
As all that begins with life
Ends with deathly procession

There is no map with designs
Of how any wizard can bypass
Hence nobody can give advice
Or ever claim to teach class
Our great swathes of silence
Mark mysteries that enthrall
Never giving off a real hint
Of the end to which we crawl

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