Sat 4 Jul, 2009 01:17 am
The ocean speaks of sun strewn eyes,
a fabric wrought by droning tides,
That I am fogged among the shore,
Cold and done I fetch for more.
The bottle wades along my tongue.
Have vernal laughs desert my lungs,
for round and round the children run
Trenched 'mong sands where war once sung.
"Bet you can't catch me", she chirps with a giggle.
"Betcha I can", he replies in earnest.
But the moon moves tides to sink the scene.
Their castle will likely wash away,
And when they are too tired to run,
And stars appear like shrapnel showers,
They will look to what the waves have done
And see what little this day has won.