We are as a lone isle in unknowable seas.
Ribbons of foam collect upon our banks of memories.
Pocketed, some rest among our rocky eaves,
Or else gently lap and release
Wisdom, tasted on the salty air, recoiling to asylum.
Chimeric tides face Psyche's distrust and corrode,
Their rhythmic motion too capricious for our sands to decode.
We fear this thief, seeing not the acceptance owed,
Instead its imperfections are to us a throbbing goad.
Fear governs the metamorphose shores, inviting only solitude.
Unless the cay fathoms the vast expanse of all,
And allows the horizon to embrace the beach's sprawl.
No Circe then are the waves, but frank and enthralled.
Lacking water on which to float, we would surely fall.
We are not alone, but isolated with help where least imagined.