Ashes of life permeate
       through shallow tides,
weakening as shores of
                   white undercurrents
collect stagnantly on white shingles.

Corroded within each grain
          that swallows all hope of
                                          elongation.
Life is a moment crumbling to an
inevitable ending, buried beneath times silt.

how do you            drag your finger nails down the shores of the
blistered beach     fully knowing lines exist,
only for seconds between moments holding onto notions that
dead things can survive

over and over you become a number in the many marks left unrecorded
sometimes
  unfractured for the beats when waves don’t reach their target.

x-ray the sand implant layers of what preceded - you - impose meaning on
all the drawings you couldn’t find
faking citations to forge        truth-beaten signs

I was a mosaic collected
in scratched nails
                  imbedded, bleeding
like I was meant to be touched
but can you really grasp a reflection..

How could you identify what
          I see, within the fallen feathers
of a crows smiles.
                               I'm hidden within,
a pile of dead bones wishing to fly again.

I could walk within the footsteps of those
in front of me on calm sands.
                               But I choose to run on
a beach of shattered shells, this is life!
broken dreams never really washing away.

I see smiles kept aloft by matchsticks,
                                       ready to ignite.
Within there embers embracing the true
               reflection of how I see others.
Parched realties of never really loving you
or another for the failures of there integrity.

I could love,
             in blindness.
But what is seen is nothingness..
I could love,
             in thought.
But memories will always lie to oneself.
I could have love,
             in myself.
But nothing ever comes from that..

Until I realize that I'm not in control
of this collage of moments.
                    I'm a Paper-Mache,
randomly collecting on a frame work
           of contemplation, that I will only
see on the completion of my life.

I'm but a part that I thought was
                                 irrelevant, immaterial.
But I'm just a piece of life collecting on
the shattered shells slowly reforming to
realize there is more to life than sandy shores.

Swallow lakes of onyx consume
my breath, as I lie asphyxiated
beyond the waking moments.

I'm drowning with the perspiration
of what clings to my eyelids.
Like cement clinging onto the fluttering
of still eyes sinking deeper from the shore.

Where I was once in the realm of cognitive
sleep, I fall deeper into the shallow
graves of that cling to my slumbering mind.

Have you fallen into a place that makes even
your breath chilled. Could you climb that
ledge of despair as your being consumed
by the fear of never finding a path from darkness

We are the mere shores
and love is the turbulent sea
separated and united
at the same time.

to yearn to meet
and pass this great sea
is to face and gratify it,
knowing that it's turbulence
can erode us away anytime.

And the sand of many shores
were caressed to shimmering glass
reflective of there yearning.

As waves fragmented upon it perceiving,
reflecting what would repeat
like a whisper upon every moment.

Over time shores became broken
shards of time. Eloping upon them
grains were once again finite moments.

So many lines and laments
scribed in ink and feeling,
for the girl who is the ocean

but she is a swell and surge
too dauntless and wild,
for a lover whose bones crave the shore.

She craves the squalls and gusts,
and cast iron skies,
a worldly drift to sate the salt in her skin,
the deep pull of currents in her blood.

She is chaotic but not reckless,
she is fickle, but not feckless.
Love her boldly or not at all
her bones belong to the sea
but she will always return to the shore.

The undercurrent always weaving,  
massaging upon the shores of each other.
degrading upon the other, so subtle in its whispers
upon the others embankment.

Thinking that with exploitation it is rendering it
susceptible to its whims.
But as light becomes more obscure, feathers of
impure tears collect eroded in impaired hues.

Two become indifferent to what was, but what lingered
for so long was now not as either had envisioned.
Diluted upon the verges of their joining, neither
now singular but an amalgamation of neither each became.

As each crested upon the others being, becoming less of
what they were and what was an eventuality. These feathers
of diluted halves would give flight to another born of neither
but both. the paradox of what was earned neither would exist.

"We wish to repeat ourselves on others,
*"Only to find the refection wasn't our true observation of our self,