Whispering through the gales of slumber
I ask:
Where does the horizon carry the thoughts of the tide
That endlessly flows inward, yet resides in the sand? — 
An echo answers, woven into the tapestry of night.

In the solitude of boundless realms
A figure stands murmuring mysteries
Between the folds of time and breath;
Speak, dreamer, of the steps not taken—
For to walk that line is to trace existence itself.