Ripples On a Blank Shore

Everyone loves everyone loved no one but the one looking back on a moonlit shore, ignominiously, the sure clarity of introspective waves hurried away like muddied thoughts squealing downhill. There is no one looking for anyone on that shore, moonlit for naught, smooth sand unbothered by footsteps or footsteps following after, just shadows cast for the unenthused moon’s enigmatic arithmetic. Always we are shadows scampering, scampering off to our delicate garden. We are the dancing dandelions by the devilish prospect of profit death delivers, delighted. At once we make everything a poem. There is love underneath love. There is this, an ocean above. How are we outnumbered when all alone? And why must contempt never be shown?