Waves away waving to us, but to no promising avail.

The shoreline is the most honest edge,
its messages written innocently by children and lovers,
cruelly washed away by the incessant insistence
of the calming, coming wave.

The calming, coming wave,
running feet from feet away, trickling down and calming
as it comes closer to us, to we--the naive--ignorantly caressing
those massaged messages of ours smoothly away.

And as we walk into wading,
waiting to die with rocks in our pockets,
we think of only "why?" and so end the poem one expected line short.