The sea-slick landscape, oil-bled and gray,
goes slapping gently at the piers each day.
The sturdy wood must think it can withstand
the water’s formless, weak and splashing hand.
So we may laugh at all the blows of life
because the world is so inept at strife.
The piers forget the water’s strongest trait:
although the wood rots slow, the sea can wait.

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