Monday, 3 December 2012

the atlantic

There is an ocean pushing my hand away from you,
forming red spheres in the blue, popping as they come to,
and I'm left sifting the sea, left looking for you,
through hands wet and webbed with water,
as the clear sea is clouded with sand,
the blue is so deep that it is now black.

Were we not born in the same dream,
the same set of stubbed in tacks.
the same half delusion of grandeur,
the same poorly pasted up cracks.
were we not pushed out together,
to float, to drown, to swim back.

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