It is too easy.
Much, much too easy
This falling and rising we do.

It leaves me hollowed.
Empty, like an autopsied heart, chambers no longer pumping life’s blood;
Or like the distended belly of some pathetic half creature fevered with hunger.

Don’t you ever feel that way?

Or do you glutton yourself on the rolling and rocking,
Feasting on the tides until you are consumed by vomitous pleasure?

This falling and rising.
This rising and falling.

This and this and this.

I am so tired of it all.
No more bile drenched lust or hearts seized by rigor.

It is simply a strange and listless pantomime of a thing now
And much too easy
To hold any worth.