These creases of ours:
Tales of dragons and white ships...
Neatly folding sheets.

Imprint on skin,
Imprint on a pane.
The One on my chest, her grace;
The Other fades sans trace.

My toes fail to curl in the concrete beneath,
Tears unfurl as I yearn for the Beach.
My nose bleeds, infiltrated by gas, smoke and dust;
The sting of saline odor gone; eyes dry, for Brine I lust.
I swim in a Sea but of a different kind, stretching far out before me,
Schools of myriad Fishes crossing roads, circumventing my being.
But there is only One true sea, the Sea behind my Home,
The Sea where I lost a sister, A mirror on which the moon shone.
The Sea sighing and whispering, its waves the only lullaby I knew,
On its beach, golden sand and memories of a woman I made love to.

So I swim and I come up for air,
For air that smells of death,
Not of Brine.
Until I lay to rest, like
My sister in her watery grave
In this concrete Sea of mine.

The cost of Patience,
Is the hours of silence.
The breaking of a heart,
The distortion of common sense.

Its cost,
Is the screams one swallows.
The words that die,
Their meaning hollow.

Its cost,
Is an eternal hunt.
To find shelter from an attempt
To resolve or confront.

Its cost,
Is the tumor filled of thoughts,
Pulsing under the skin,
Of a Man distraught.

The cost of Patience,
Is an Eternal Agreement.
To be and to let be,
Condemned to be in confinement.