Sand whispers tales of long departed echoes, resounding through time's fickle fingers.
Beneath each imperceptible crest lies a truth, a murmuration of forgotten things,
glimpsed only in the peripheral haze of memory's window. Shore upon shore,
erasing, rewriting, a palimpsest of water and wind, where
the ocean's breath becomes a graveyard of silenced yesterdays.

Listen—do you hear the sighs? They curl like fragile wisps of fog,
tracing patterns on the shore, only to be swallowed
by the relentless surge. A tide constant in its
inconstancy, a rhythm lost to reckoning, though
the moon knows its song well, a lullaby in shadows,
a dance across the waves, hidden in darkness.

We write our lives in sand, in ink of acid rain and
salt air, only for the waves to devour them
with a tender ferocity, a love letter to oblivion,
etched in the soft sighs of the surf.
So, what is left when the waves recede? A mirror of
identity, unmasked and naked, reflecting only the
imprints of dreams—erased, unnoticed, yet unyielding.