Were the ink intended to drip across the field
As a wounded soldier stumbled after war?
Was the loss of blood imprinted upon a canvas
Painted as a weakening musical score?
Were the hours in battle meant to leave
a carcass soul, ravaged on the floor?
Were the seconds in between survival and celebration
Tossed like orange rinds along the shore?
Whilst in this play –on this long November day—the tension built and nothing occurred whatsoever.
So beneath a placid sea
Buried in the deceit of a smile
The shroud of doubt wound round and round the arms filled with veins that life relentlessly passed through.
And this life appeared to be mountain, eagle, waterfall, rebirth, majestic
The glories flitted upon the screen of a face
In an embrace
An intimate conversation
A sharing of living stories
All resulting in
Once ragged jagged sharp and aquamarine seaglass.
Smoothed, soft, sanded, aged
The broken bottle from battle field to ocean tumble
Landed in my hand
To never be let go.