Waves--
wear casual black caps.
Contrived, certainly;
they will capsize and consume.

Lying and aging,
suffocating for His breath,
they share their face with the mirror,
having no second thought to claim it unique.

Sails--
the boat and child;
a divine inspiration.
Tasked to blow out their lungs,
but would it even move?

Dying like the left hand,
once taut by our grandfathers,
life wanes, vexed of the holy eye;
cross and contrived to every discrete path.
No circle was made perfect.

Purpose be my paradox,
down the spiral to chase a dream;
little pennies around
a big,
red
rink.