My mind drifts with this rotted piece of wood,
with the plastic pop bottles in the swirls of bluish sea,
the ocean floor littered with soils of man.
All death must go somewhere,
the dead soldiers of sex,
thrown down the toilet and washed away,
the dead debris of the youth,
failing to find somewhere else to go,
landing on the sandy beaches.
The fallen warriors of man made torture,
fallen into sandy grasps,
it all must come to an end.
Plastic and tin corpses,
becoming land-mines in this mess of sand.
"Everything in the world,
seems to drift towards the sea,
and usually ends up,
on the beach somewhere".
Somewhere a where
for a who with no name.
Rotting and decaying in the salty crevices.
Floating into eternity,
with a reminiscence of the sand bound land at hand.
We are the fallen.
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