Castles in the sand should be,
by right of nature,drowned,
seagulls white and ruckus,
surf make crunching sounds.
And what’s the good of winter
without a freezing snow?
What’s the good of wandering
if you have some place to go?

Man should be, by definition,
aged into the ground
and God should wear ,
by Writ declared,
a golden, firey crown.

For if we can’t be sure about
the obvious and true,
then how to face a
fogging world
where focus blurs,
some greens look blue
and I can’t tell
my me from you?