An address to pebbles that protest

I am the maker of your fear, says the silver ocean. like the dessert sun to a scotched frog, I strike the sand and bury you deep with each beat, Too when the night is calm, and moon puts me to slumber I lay heavy on your soul that pleads to turn dust and fly, If for a minute. I hear your cracks and whimper when my cold, cold, skin Envelopes your breath with salt of Sodom Only to leave, and return, and leave. I willfully craft a moonless night of my eyes to your anguish, Send your pleas north, to a different god perchance, I have not vowed myself to benevolence. A trillion stones surrender their selves for sake of sand, that which is my bed to sleep, my dog to beat and to break, Why then thinks a single pebble that a lion ought to save a deer. I shan’t take the tedium of stillness, and not dance ashore If that be your woe, so be Long before your cries, long after, yours is to serve my whim.