Prosody

When we remove
the impossible
whatever remains
however improbable
must be the truth

the plainsong ocean
of language
holds at its blue center
whispers of truth
and as our eyes trace the horizon
and we make our way to the edge
where on shores no man an island
every wave becomes part of a set
a piece of the whole
and therefore
no man's words are diminished to me
the feedback of the wave before
drawing against the shore
we are all
riders on the storm