He wrote his name in the sand

Block lettering with

stone-like solitude, it wrote back.

It told him of his future.

But before he could wipe it away,

the tide took it.

The man, now old

knew the moon was after him.

Although it offered him no date

he was sure he had written

more than his name

in the now seemingly

volatile terra firma.



He knew we all make prophecies

and he was due -

his old skin petrified.

As the sand of time wore

and buried his body.

How had his degenerate mind

produced such a thing?

His sunken hands rested on the sand.



He saw a reflection; glass-like

forebodings. What was time if not a constant

ticking of the defeat

in mortality.

"Unnatural" the sand now spat

at him. His fury rose for what

oracle was this?

The sand attacked him again in dry fits

he crouched down further

unmoved with wisdom and extreme age in his eyes.



He answered with obedience.

The sand knew he was fated

servile in life and fantasy



the sand had tried but man was past hope



To obedient, indentured

to the supernatural.

Man lost his battle; the tide

took him up in pity

beauty ended -

kept underfoot

and rendered a vapor.