In canon

Marked by waning rhythm
these days pass unremembered
but for the minutiae from chaos.

Grains shift and riol underfoot,
from solid to silt, pressed un’ the weight
of what brings you to this point repeatedly.

A place of deserved meditation,
repudiated by an evocation of the past
that may never surface.

Still, it comes, when you let it.

A self not seen in profile
but reflected in the present body,
coiled ‘pon this prescient shore.

Ephemeral are the tides of conviction,
tracing the same thread of purpose,
of place, ’til giving way to time.