I walk in the black sand as the volcano sleeps.
My passing is marked by footprints pressed into time.
I am there and then the ocean washes me away.
The world is my home, you are my child.
Together we are made from the stuff of dreams.
Born from spark, before the sun, before time.
See me quickly now because we do not have long.
You are not reading your story; you are writing it.
Wade Harold Johnson