Sometimes,
For writer’s sake
I am not what I mean.
When you awake
And I am me
Will you and I forsake?

I speak in riddles
For folklore’s tale
Of riches beyond
Our human scale
But what we know
Is just a drop
As I swim in its pale.

Why does the eath turn
And bees sting?
Why do the seas sigh
And humans sing?

There is no reason in perfection
or imperfection in its reason.

We come and go
Amongst the tides
As stories told
We are what lies.