It's just
as I thought—this
evening tide,
gold and
unfolding
gradually before me, at last
reveals tranquility
to be only
one half
of a cold math equation.
Humbly, I read
proofs. Glumly,
I'm convinced—absolute stillness
does not exist.
Since,
these mysterious phantom
silent spaces I witness
must only
advance
and improve
over time
upon their
opponent's decline.
Even now,
as the pitch
of placidity rises
to high tide,
I can
just make out,
far off in the distance,
temporarily
ebbing—the flagrant din
of the actual.
