We are but waves,
ourselves and those around us.
As we reach a pinnacle
we believe we are the first to crash on this beach.
We are the first to be swallowed again, out to sea.

Every moment, more important than the crashing wave just before.
Believed to be unique, special, how true.
But alike all the same.

We are but ebb, and flow.
Ashes, dust.
Held up by those before,
and supporting those who will come after.

Waxing and waining,
living and dying,
rivers and tides.