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.
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