Friends, I find, are like oceans.
In that their influences come
and go
with the tides
when fate,
or the moon,
Pulls them to other places.

A friend, I find, is like an ocean
because he or she affects me in waves,
which come
and go
and come
to change the person I am
one grain of sand at a time.

And when the last wave has come
and gone,
an event which may never happen,
or may occur tomorrow,
the artifacts they leave behind -
the lost kites,
the clouded glass,
and - most of all - the shells
decorate my life
and make it worth traversing.

And - most of all - the shells
herald forever their influence.
Echoes of their voices
everlasting in my mind.

The night grows dark; still darker.
My eyes in tears and water,
The stars fall far, then farther,
Until the sky is gone

The cold has dipped
I shiver.
The world has slipped
The river
That trails so far
I wonder
Does it taste of salt?

I wrap my shreds about me
Both wisps of hope and worry
As vague sanctuary
From bright reality.

I stand alone
Though others
Have come and gone
In druthers
As if some story's chatter
Moves still
Though I have stopped.

I keep my curtains shuttered,
Yet light, however battered,
Still fights, shines on my shattered
Spirit, still wracked with grief.

While my quiet's
Unfinished
And life must stay
Diminished
It's good to know
That sunlight
Still waits most patiently.

Sometimes, writing is just
Ink on a page, splashes
Of black
On white, shadows cast
On light, something that tripped
And fell
Just happening
To form patterns
We recognize.
Sometimes, writing is
Different,
The ink - which never changes -
Mind you -
Seems to shine,
To leap beyond
Its page,
Like the sempiternal clouds
At the root of
The waterfall,
Tactile
Everywhere at once,
Obscuring your vision,
Causing your skin to
Bump,
And Prickle,
All the while
Filling your ears
With the white noise
Of water.
It's when writing is like that,
When it seems to breathe,
Where you might read it once,
Twice,
And between readings,
The meaning changes,
Somehow.
The writer's pen
Has been left behind,
Still the story lives on,
Like it should,
Like it deserves,
And sometimes it's a vast novel,
Sometimes
It's a poem,
With three lines,
Five
Seven
Five
And yet, for all their differences,
They are the same: Two
Living, breathing, scintilla
Sharing
Ink-and-paper
Heritage.