Prosaic Lament
Prosaic lament at the tempo of an ocean aloud.
Washing in, washing out, frothy at the mouth―
Turbulence predicted, and exiled time after time,
Onto a muddy body that dreams of the sublime
Hammocked on small hours’ vapors we grasp,
Often, on the hypnotic swaying of seagrass―
Ill-disposed cons attempting to steal a breath
Away. If unsuccessful, a single housefly affair
Spooks instead, with crisscrossing high buzzes,
Rampant pokes, which topple the dream in rushes
Upside down, led startled at the precipice, despond,
And all the weight mustered on fingers holding on
To the ledge, holding onto an almost betraying air,
Willing to dissipate from the lungs in all its allure,
And never to return if permitted. Unlike the waters
Roaring above, enough to fall, fill, and spillover borders
To ground the bones in their submerged depths,
Adopt the flesh to new burgeon of fishes intents.
To contend for air fritters the dream with judicious use,
And be damned that irksome fly to cause such ridicule.
