The clock stops and our hands
are clasped around glasses
chiming to a future: blue. There’s a
knock and a tumble and still we
struggle to ascertain the source of
the rain. Each line, a layer. Each
mistake, a thread; in a tapestry
so tightly woven. Engrossed, we
fight and play with words and
trump each one of the stymied
verses that berate, elate and stand
the test of time. We’re new to this
new life but old school in the
rhythms of our flowing, salty seas.
In storms, we sail. In mud, we
drive. In the chaos of the everyday
we will always thrive; sanctimonious,
the sun will always rise (and set) for us.



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