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Innovation­game

The lapping of the waves


A slow idyllic lap, lap, lap
upon the silent sands
between two broken rocky points,
whose strained defeated crags
seem wont to reach across the cove
and strangle tidal peace
of tranquil ripples in the Sun,
that break with untold might
beneath grey skies of turbulence
commanded by a gale
when angry is the god of love
and contravened his laws.

So stretch the weathered claws of rock
in futile fantasy
to hide their dashed and beaten pride
were empty misery
in self-sufficient idleness
conceives pretension’s joy,
that nothing will abate in time
until the doom of years
that envelopes all mortal souls
before they hope to die,
when sadness can no more descry
the countless pains of love.

The lapping of an era dead
endures a whispering hour,
before the stiffened limbs are washed
by purity complete
that scours the sin of wasted life
when none would dare redeem
a broken personality,
so shattered by the fates
beyond all hope of human love
that seems yet infinite,
but fails when thunder clouds recite
a lamentation new.

Who knows what errors judgement made
in darkness or despair,
when all the World is emptiness
save noisy modern things
that hoot and clank and scream aloud
of dying chastity
and love is farther now away
than all creation’s dream;
so desperation’s fantasy
is thrown upon the rocks
and destiny completes its course
of triviality.