It comes, masked,
a quiet eddy,
hidden peril,
a hungry
quicksand.
It comes, instant
as demons,
intent on theft
and plunder.
It comes
relentless with
intention
white horse
chariot
drawn by moon.
It comes by night
by storm and
wind,
it comes by day
in like-mannered
kind.
It comes, a
warhorse,
violent and black
in full charging.
It never departs
but red handed,
full handed,
leaves scars
in its scouring.
It takes its
trophies
the instants of
time
washed by tide
assailing the
cliffs
with its burglary.
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