Thought Tapestries

The ocean is a gray slate floor, Scuffed by the wind’s relentless stride, Where born of gales, white ribbons soar, Born of the turning of the tide.

Above the stone-cold, slate-gray floor, The pale, ephemeral wisps arise— A fleeting dance, a momentary roar, Beneath the heavy, iron skies.

They twist and spin in frantic grace, White ribbons torn upon the deep, Leaving no shadow and no trace Before they sink back down to sleep.

A theater of wind and bone, Where fleeting ghosts of foam advance, Upon a stage of fluid stone, The wild and white-winged wisps still dance.