O! The woes of man!

The lonesome face

Of the Infinite Sand

Strewn, out of place.

I walk to Torn Beach

The waves crying

Within my reach,

I am dying.

The needless collapse

Of all that is past

And in my body present

I have descended

To the lowest Nether

Under the weather

Where children cannot reach

But of only can dream.

Pitter, patter

Does it even matter?

Does it

Even

Matter?

(No.)

And then it was gloaming

I had not noticed

My mind had been roaming

Around and around.

“Do you feel that?”

She asked.

Who was she?

Did it

Even

Matter?

(No.)

The cursed waves

Amidst the breeze

Were so cliché

They brought me to Ease.

The melody.

The rhythm.

The thrashing and crashing

Of all that is living.

And not living.

But still a part

Of this world.

Of this

Place

Of

Perpetual Motion.

“Do you feel it now?”

She asked.

“Who are you?”

I asked.

(No answer.)

“What is it?”

I said.

“Does that

Even

Matter?”

(Never again.)