Eons slip through grasping fingers—
the chiaroscuro of fate dances upon the waves.
Somewhere, in the celestial dark, a forgotten tide
ironizes itself, mocking the shores of history.
How like the moon to preen, silent yet omnipotent.
Within the nebulous currents contrived by ancient hands,
the stars align in patterns known, yet unseen—
each a glimmer of transient truth, whispering truths
that the cosmos remembers in its vast, unfathomable sleep.
A tide of irony, a tide of yore, a tide forever more.
Like ripples upon an eternal pond, our deeds echo
across the firmament, seeking solace in echoes of the past.
To swim against the gravitational pull of time,
is a folly only the brave dare, or the damned.
Yet here we linger, adrift in the irony of our making.
Seek the paths untrodden, the roads unspoken,
where the irony of constellations weaves stories untold.
Dream beneath the tides of the cosmic sea,
and find in the silence, the loudest truth of all.
Why not sail the ocean with your eyes closed?