Cradled by the surging foam of wave’s brink,
Glass crawls out of the clarity
As if in fear of its own evanescence,
As evanescent and everlasting
As the ocean itself.

Spears the dampened powder, it does,
A softness shadowed with each sporadic breath of a sea,
Foaming by the mouth of incomparable genius,
A wisdom and insanity
Sustaining the very feet of this earth.

Regardless and nonetheless
And with all words of molded neglect,
Jagged bits of glass thrust themselves
Into illusive welcome, a powdered sin.
And heat’s merciless palm
Cups the lingering beads of genius
Until enigma is merely
Glass in sand.

And yet, reflected within the tinted clarity,
Under grime of an hour’s homelessness
And blood of a runner’s toes,
Is the glistening hint of a lost brilliance,
Willingly sacrificed
Through fear of fate.

It is not the ocean I fear.
Nor is the glass beneath which I hide
For whom my tears are shed.
It is rather the question that surges the waves,
That is the catalyst for an ocean’s foaming lips,
That is the shadow that coats
All it engulfs
In its entirety:

Who are we behind the glass?
And who remain within the sea?