Underwater

And the silence perfumes madness With a drifting scent; the words Stand tall, lonely and oh so square Like Wise Old Men, deciding Their fate and time: skipping, On the dotted-line, through Feeling; thrashing it's stinger Wasp-like, up and down our spine 'Til we turn like snakes and coil; Wrapped in red sunshine and Spelled out across the rocks Like an open-wound, and salt- Water lashing against the sores. As the tide tugs between us, We slither towards a common goal For sand or water- anything really That's not quite as jagged as reality, Or as toothy as perception With his hungry mouth open To desensitize feeling; weathering Rocks to perches where we'd sit upon and kiss The waves as they'd break, cold, Upon our ankles- smooth And imperfect; We, if there's any Chance of us, must become the rock As much as we're the wave Sliding across foreign shores Like some endless serpent Lying in a starry repose, Stretched out and Waiting to strike.