Diligent hands
run through the sands,
shockwaves of time
of kindred signs
fill the void
of eyes and eyes
of tears without water.
A semblance so real
though the eve be surreal,
poetry in motion
floats on air.
Deep down in the lair
a sparkle is born
not to be seen
never to be clear.
It moves in a spiral
down to the sea
born in shadows
will it ever be free?
Still the chain proceeds
and if the sea recedes
It will be,
It will be.
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