There are times,
Bleak, like glade without flowers,
When I alone, as a wayside stone,
Trickle through the brook,
Crashing, colliding
Joining the solemn, sweet rhythm of it’s music,
So to ease my own nothingness,
My everyday simplicity,
Of existing without inertia;
A slave to the force of motion,
As salt upon the flesh of ocean.