One boulder smolders in the rain,
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orphaned on a beaten beach coast.
A murmur burns, incites delay;
still, it sustains its fire's flame.
The grains of sand mere mirrors,
of infinite insanity;
repeats regrets of man's misdeeds,
which prevail and pale through time.
While wild horses spur on the mount,
a whispering wind tries to cry;
the boulder cracks and splits, a bit;
then, turns to two, three, four and five.
Cold holds tight in the black of night;
secrets unfold across the globe,
in a burly birthing of life.
There's no blame in the fire's rain
Beauty's a muse muted in waste
while mediocrity commands;
--for mortals are what mortals are--
no more, no less through time's caress.