A space between the sky and death
Where tides leave tracings of belief,
And words can summon or dissolve
The science of our solid world.
That space, in which the phantoms play
With fragile games and fickle minds,
Conventions, platitudes and thoughts
Are shaken from its nightmare’s breath.
And last when shards of safety shred,
We’re left an awful truth to face:
The nameless horror on the beach
Which twists and turns and tightens on.
The space in which we all are thrown:
We walk, we sleep, we die alone.
(based on the story by M.R. James)