Addiction

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life, no aim or form.		
In all directions careless 
broom-straws
	blown by gusty storm.
Towns aflame sparkling    
      with each busy soul. 
the smell of life, the odor of its toll.
Clutching their bowls of soup; derelicts
filling their holes
      with charity’s endless loop.
Each street a living river 
             flowing driftwood buildings. 
Spilling pools of debris 
	that wash away all evidence of vice
    into dampened lots of memories.
Distant arching bridges, 
             limbs that link their parts 
like you and I in love 
            linked with desperate hearts. 
Another storm, another street, 
hearts retreat
	from city’s reach.  
kneeling, grasp a stone
feed the oceans’ lapping tongue
whispering: “Thy will be done”
Wafting breezes christen us 
	with ocean spray 
lending us a holiness to pray.
baptized lappings 
from a shallow surf 
bind us to this hallowed earth
to lay on sand, feel the morning sun. 
Yes, now at last 
	The will of all be done.
Distant voices sink our ear.  
Seagull patterns, heard from far and near.
Faint footsteps of a journey 
    soon erased by time. 
            Echoes left unsigned.
We were the cause 
	of our effects unchained.
Each quiet soul, in final truth
       left stained.

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