Seasons Of Shorelines

Hourglass embryos of hasty drawn plans
spun upon the wind like delicate spider webs
capturing the wave song in momentary moldings,
desperately thinking they will breathe
if the hands can massage miracles.

Oh the vanity of footprints
left upon that shore
in the winter of the mind,
prayerful visits to the beaches
where sunsets are vivid postcards
and nothing ever dies,
but the waters come anyway
they rot the iron made of grains
because it is wine that seduces,
blurs and numbs.

Whispers petition for spring
with all its mirrors,
yet deep down knowing
they are too made of sand,
fading like any vision
while still strolling towards
another buoy sound
thinking summer will never end
if enough beach is crossed,
forgetting the ruination seen,
which resembles tombstones
that also decay.