These lived elusive times,
our spans derived depths of brine,
tear lakes together in puddles,
so magnificent as their aquatic flowers blooming
beneath.

Only so many meteors might fall
until the ocean belches
more that it whispers
when waved winds acquire
depth.

Chance’s coach reigns white horses,
shape-shifters, meant to tweak convention,
to distress the requiem
of shadowy literary forms
forever.