A thousand stories I never read and no one would ever read. With a writer for ever one taken by the ocean sea so I... With every current a million waves that crash if ever we could count them all. Gone. With the time. Gone with the tide. No moon that glows off the pages so that the last light could mourn them. To the sea with assuring forever gone. Have you ever felt as easily gone with the current of a breeze. Well my longevity seems wasted and open doors I've seen that they are only visible if you can see where no one can but God. If you can see the invisible. Shorelines to chase back the only window to my past and its desired much more than anyone person can note for themselves. If only to take sure steps toward what it is i dont want that would leave me numb feeling and then I'd take away the scars too. To move my hands like constellations over the sky. I would retire old feelings some and rehearse my words better and dot my i's. as they say as to not forget. There's a thousand writers I aim to read. With tired hands and No way back from holding secrets of the divine. The sea is bastardly sometimes. Or maybe the frailty of us in fear and the oceans are our account in tears. As humanity searchs we rehearse the mass of us. The forgotten hurt ones leaves to the grave and the rest in smiles. Lets forget and pray and not panic. The Fallen of us will remember the scars and shame. we put them there. On paper. On paper. In Ink and pencil. If they could only stay on paper as journalist hoaxes. But theres an article for small percentages of ghost seen ones and ones that won't live until the morning. And we won't have to know. Because tides change and so does times. We hide behind the mask
