The Sea
rises and falls, each swell
brings it closer to the shore
It reaches white-tipped fingers toward
the ever-present
(but just out-of-reach)
goal.
To be dry,
to bask in the glory of
sun-baked sobriety.
Drug free is the way to be.
(Or so I hear)
And still The Sea reaches,
foaming fingers
despite the moon's gravity and
the changing of the tide.
Author notes
17 July 2007.
This one just came to me while I was attending an open-mic poetry slam. I'm really pleased with it as a rough draft, and I feel that it only needs a teeny bit of work.
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