The Shoreline

I write my name upon the cooling grit,

Where salt and foam embrace the tired land;

With jagged shell, I carve my name and wit,

To claim a kingdom on the shifting sand.

The creeping tide, with fingers cold and pale,

Begins to lick the edges of my pride;

Against the deep, my monuments must fail,

As all my works are pulled beneath the tide.

But let the water wash the surface clean,

And drown the vanity I sought to save;

For only when the shore is no more seen,

Does earth become a brother to the wave.

The lines I drew were meant to stay the same,

Yet ocean knows no man, and has no name.