On the Subject of Time

An effervescent sea is time,
The keeping of the hours its tide.
That washes down the cliffs of man,
With rage to whip a mongrel's hide.

As twigs to break on branches dry,
Does time sweep man up off his throne.
Cutting clean the walls of spite.
Howling through the ignorant stone.

And though the man has gone long past,
His foe grows mighty evermore.
And cold its hand is, swift and stinging,
Crashing down upon the shore.