tears fog my glasses,
and I sit here at the lip of the ocean,
and recount all of life's losses,
replaying again in slow motion;
and this place that was so special
carries memories to watery graves:
songs of warriors,
songs of simple knaves,
songs of you,
carried off by surly grey waves;
down through time,
all down the line,
you may remember me,
sitting alone by the sea,
wondering and wishing
sitting and thinking about
doing some fishing,
trying the tide,
and hoping on the side,
hoping that maybe
I made a small difference,
somehow, a long time ago.

February 22, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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