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Carlo C Gomez Apr 2020
At swim,
girl waits with gun.
She's a half-formed thing,
having entered into it
The fault in our stars,
the night sky with exit wounds,
is left to the grace of
a god of such small things:

fabulous disarray,
perilous notions.

It's a common tale
in tragic literature,
but here it now floats.
The red tide washing
back onto shore
as granules of sugar,
sweet as petrified honey
in the hallowed out trees:

in which we begin
to not understand.

The sea breaks its back,
lingering like the wet gossamer
of her nightdress,
covered with the scent
of stillbirth,
and the illimitable
shut-in trials:

they arrive in waves,
she weeps every time they're "borne."
E McNamara Mar 2018
The ocean spray of salt
The everlasting sounds of waves
The sand, a locked vault
The tide, an unforgiving grave

The sun rises at the edge
The memories so celestial
I take my loyal pledge
My heart a sailing vessel

Sea shells, colorful in sound
Sea life, beautiful in sight
A dream I’ve finally found
The sunset, a hypnotizing light

The airborne seagulls calling me to sink
The surf alluring a magical peace
My endeavors start to shrink
The stars turn to be my timepiece
Gabriel burnS Aug 2017
Put some stress on those legs
Not a dress that begs
My permission for takeoff
caught the wave... are we high; are we there yet?

— The End —