fingers s l i d e across the surface
of a thirsty tree whose leaves 
seem to f
         a 
          l
           l only at your hands 
as if a perfect balance is achieved
disturbed only by the wind and 
the touch of a w          e r 
                   a  n d      e
                                 r

breath slips from the creature
as it moves from this world
the most beautiful of departures
tainted, barely, by your watchful eyes
a sight defiled solely by
the presence of human life

as the sun drops beneath the horizon
the moon rises to join the stars
trees sway, a soft evening breeze
a careless foot ends a trilling insect
silencing a     portion     of the night
with the vacuity of tired eyes

to touch the ocean of my dreams
would be to disrupt a vision
to take the smile from your face
no less of a sorrowful act, and so
taint the world as you will..

until
        the joy of destruction leaves 
                                       you
                                            here
lost, but not cold, and 
                           alone.

that which you destroy will keep you warm

No mercy has the sea when we are nowhere near its angry clutches.

Waves of incidence can sweep the future out of the palm of your hand without warning. The very substance of those things taken for granted can change from soft, warm and comfortable into a cold, hard mass of uncertainty. No gathering clouds. No sound. What is taken for granted is never realized until it has passed.

"Boy, what in the hell are you talking about?"

Ohhh... confidence shattered...

Bobby always did enjoy the sea. He couldn't remember why, but while he was alive, his grandfather often took him sailing. Bobby looked forward to each and every trip, but he never understood the anger of the sea. It was more than just wind and water. It was rage of a different sort. The rage reminded Bobby of the feelings he had inside every time he watched his older brother extinguish cigarette butts on the foreheads of squirrels behind the boathouse. That anger was real. So was the rage of the sea. As such, the rage gave him peace.

"Boy, are you going to finish raking the yard or do you need a whupping?"

I have no time for myself. For my dreams. None of this is fair.

The "whupping" would come regardless. Bobby knew this without having to cast so much as a shadow of a doubt. His father enjoyed beating him even more than he enjoyed beating his brother or his sister. They had gotten too used to it. Beating Bobby was a different story. It was something he gained a twisted sense of pleasure from, because Bobby always flinched. His father's pleasure was real. So was the pleasure of the sea. As such, pleasure gave Bobby no peace.

"Dammit, boy, you must've been born with the stupids. Got that from your mom's side."

Mom never leaves the house. Smokes Pall Malls, drinks vermouth and watches soap operas when you aren't around.

Eventually something would have to happen. A pattern in life eventually has to be broken. For Bobby, he could only dream. Only fourteen years old, he could hardly run off on his own. Even if he did, his father would run him down and beat him with a tire iron. That already happened to his sister, so he did not dare push the envelope. The fear was real. So was Bobby's fear of the sea. As such, the fear kept him alive.

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