... poetry ...

The Water Washed Over

at an age when nothing matters

save severity and complexity

the Urchin strains upward

stretching through grim and toil and

wavering folds of tempest flesh

up, up, up through the dark tides

of doubt and circumstance

beyond the foaming billows and stagnant

puddles, where in lightest sunlight

the water washes over

it pours in – pent up floods

of delight – despair – displaced

into a river of pleasant promises

and it wiggles and waves onward

like the bending light of a rainbow’s skin

limp and leaking like

gray clouds seeping from a sore

true it is when belief becomes knowledge

true it is when hope becomes reality

true it is when pain becomes a medicine

tonic and true as all the little empty shells

the water washed over.

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