The fluctuating

flood-mark, a boundary of --


dry seaweed flowers.

Colour is dangerous;
you fall into it.

And colour can swallow you,
and like music it is super emotional.

It is hard to stay distant.

the calm, sweet energy
you crave was pouring
from me in waves
even in the end
I don't know why or when
but at some point the tide
just didn't reach you anymore

I wait and wait
and wait for the turn of the brine tide
and bored, I turn and wait no more.
I walk back home,
with a wooden fork
and open vinegared chips.

I bought the shroud of Turin
the vatican had a sale
they have legal expenses
and priests that needed bail.

It was just an old dusty cloth
so I put it in the wash
that Tide detergent, never fails
all the smudges and stuff washed off.

What's it like to die but still breathe,
To walk, talk, live, while being dead underneath.

I want to die but physically I'm here,
I'm alone in this feeling, I fear.

Sure, others feel the same,
But no one close by can share my shame.

Let me go, free to die,
Let me go, stop chasing the ghost tide.

Our love,
Are our hearts
Just written in the sand?
To be washed away with the tide.
Or will it withstand?
The test of time.