When the pouring tides have shrunk
From foaming cataracts to tiny storms,
The roar dulled, stemmed to a minor flow,
Branches now representative of truth.
Pulse, bright, sick sun flaring at
Miniature ends, epicentre and receiver
All very far away, sensation everywhere
Receptive scattershot sprayed.
Realisation of our inadequacies as beings
Of humanity weighs heavy, the epic crush
Like unto the aeons all facing down,
Combined pressure gravitic lancing, points
Per square inch, pixelised, loaded, fully
Formed and divided.