Addiction

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.