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 sea-foam,
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.