Comatose in the thick of defeatist pine,
his purpose eclipsed by his labor,
he awaits the return of oneiromancy
from the umbra of an uncarved range,
but you can't gain ground when buried.

All tides bleed through heart and tongue,
eroding the polymath's weak grasp.

But climb or drown dreamless;
no spine can be etched in the absence
of flood.

And when granite lies bare in arid consequence,
he will abrade its ridge to expose his pith
or ascend its peak to be one
with a transience born
of none.

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