My steps
are all fragments
of one very misplaced ballad.
Don't ask me why,
you don't really get a choice.
Song lyrics on a piece of
cup-ring-stained paper
cannot read themselves.

My footprints,
leave a trail into a blue mystery.
Funny, they don't disappear under-water.
I have no shoreline
to guide my misplaced strides.

And when shattered sand dollars
are reluctantly coughed up by
the wild waves of 2:00 am,
the only trail illuminated by the moon's light
is the directionless one,
who stumbles on those broken sand dollars,
to pocket 'em,
and grasp 'em tightly, with white knuckles.
They crumble under the pressure.
Everything is so truely fragile.
Sand streams out from in between fingers.

And when the sun rises,
the misplaced ballads
hide under blue covers.
I'd rather look for broken seashells at night,
then re-read my verses.
Any ballad I carry with me,
is bound to be misplaced.