On Sunday’s Canvas
our footprints sketch a path
across the sand.
Out of focus, others dot the beach.
Hands drawn tightly together,
our talk ebbs and flows.

This is Sunday’s Cove,
the rim where rivers end and tell their stories.
Afternoon sea and sky run together until
we are surrounded by what we feel.
Sand shines in a festive way.

Here at the edge of the world,
night is celebrated with wine in a water glass.
Beyond the surf, we do not hear the silence.
We wake every morning to brush new paths.

small talk chit chat
same old same old
say something new
what can I say
that hasn't already
been said
nothing comes to mind
but god dam it
has always been
a favorite phrase of mine.

when does hope die
right before you do
is probably the best case
some live long lives
with their hope dead
A sad bunch
resigned to the shadows
they know the future
it isn't good.

Dead bodies always have drawn flies
but perhaps one day
they won't
instead of flesh
for the insectoid feast
it will be steel
robot wars
no bloodshed needed
or maybe we'll have
world peace
I only jest
robot war will be
our reward for avoiding
extinction at an earlier date
if we're lucky.