Wind, Rain, and Tides

The future is a measure of how far a man can see, And hopelessness is a
self-fulfilling prophecy,
All the meaning in the unturned stones; lost to the season,
You sow an excuse and expect to reap a reason, In the poetry of bliss you try
to while the hours, Thru winter’s cold hands and summer’s showers,
This life is not happening to you; you are happening to it,
The dumb days turning heavens and the desolation wit.
You search for inspiration when you feel your soul is sapped,
In the nighttime sky but all the stars have been tapped,
This world an alter of sorrow; wonder and pain,
All congealed into an intangible ache of river and rain,
She says «this» and it all just falls into the bulk of being,
What the eye can’t see is the flawed weather of seeing,
An undiminished destination awaits as patiently as god,
As even for the willing and the doing favors odd.
Baited by this ostensible orbit we assume the build,
Dowered in the future’s placebo we are softly killed,
Change is the kind of nothingness of machine stress,
Sensually lost in the deed and her dress,
The ever-ending never over labor-logic-life,
Is the meaning implied when the bride is discovered wife,
The shifting elements consumed by the mortal’s secular clock,
Wind; rain and tides beat change into the rock.