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

Rubbish.

The broken bottle from battle field to ocean tumble

Landed in my hand

To never be let go.