The Empty Sea
Walking through a door isn't easy, it's more of a
button that communicates you. I hate boring you,
agent of change in worried threads come to pass
along winter's regards. Worse than eating
at your desk is not wishing hard enough,
some would say hardy enough, to live without
legging it out. Why not wave to a new
diameter, here to parry an old razor's flirtation.
That's not a rhetorical equation, but for the sake
of argument let's reproduce reality
just a little, for a nocturnal fee. It may behoove
us yet to abet those who bemoan us.
I've heard of a similar process in the ashes
few bother to wake up to thinking of;
an empty sea was always almost there,
stored away in years rolled up in folds of air.