i.
you are older than the stones beneath your calloused feet, but somehow you feel young, still childlike in your naivety despite the fact that the world has conspired to throw you to the rocks below. the waves crash over your broken form, but you are still gazing up at the diving birds.

ii.
give this beach a washed up body, these waves a soul to caress. give these fish some bones to nibble, these seagulls some remains to harass. broken and battered, bloated and blue, they'd find you on the stones with the surf soaking your skin. a gift to the sea and whatever deity of death that would come to claim the spirit left behind.

iii.
alas, if only oblivion were such an easy acquisition. you crawl from the seafoam, reborn anew in your silver-skinned glory. they are distraught by your survival, but they should've known that you will not die until your time. you cannot. there are still things you must do before you are granted your end.

h.f.m.