The moon pulls at the waves,
ruling the tides for eternity,
a simple process of gravity,
the push and pull of uncontrollable forces.
The cover of night gives way,
the dawn watches as the pair
on the beach moves apart,
knowing there are things you cannot fix.
It is often impossible to snatch
truth from the wings of an angel
when the clay of your making
has been stored in the bottom of a box of lies.
for the Sunday Whirl