The forgotten princesses

why does a flea revere to the sea?
The tides of a war,
succumb to a shore.
The haggard, the worn,
speak cruel of the sun,
‘for,
the horizon
is truly, mere
still-born
to most dreams
of a town,’
to all ‘cept the winged,
the creatures of
fowl.
The wicked, the small, and all little girls:
but what do they know,
a life through a peep-hole
is simply
a
trance
not permanence, nor position, and
nevertheless
a storm of
one thousand
takes time to arrive
reverence is not existence,
rather
direction of tide.