I write like the ocean,
Wave upon word strewn wave,
Only, though, in times of turmoil,
When in those few moments of peace,
I am like glass,
Heart and pen still,
No words pouring from my hand.
Yet, as of late I pound the boulder strewn shores of discontent,
Railing against doubt,
Hoping that if I wear them away peace will again come.
Glassy, smooth.