While the wind and the
Sky stay the same,
The ocean has plans
To do anything but remain.

It writhes and twists,
Shaking loose from the
Floor’s hold for a moment, Then falling, only to rise again.

For they that must make sense
Before accepting something and moving past, This ocean must seem like a sadistic pest. For sense it does not offer. No tidy ending.

The onlooker sees no discernible pattern,
No rhythm from which to create expectation. No clearly defined sets of waves,
Only white capped peaks and undulations.

In the middle of seeming chaos,
It can be wise to recognize that clarity,
If ever, may only come further down the road Long after its supposed usefulness has expired.