Night after night, the madman by the sea stalks the shore
Pocketing sea glass that whispers of absence, kissing each shard with a motherly fondness
What I know of solitude, you shall know—each splinter an echo hidden in the tide
Night after night, he scavenges the shore’s edge, gathers scattered memories, cellulose promises lost in ebb and flow
The moon laughs with the stars, the sand waltzes with the ocean, And in this
dance, loneliness expands, muscled and tender–Moaning through the waves, through the man’s hollow chest.
Perhaps this sea glass is as lonely as I.
The madman breathes life into the vestiges of stories lost, Exhaling possibility into fragments of forgotten horizons, Creates
Her–emerging from the interstices of longing
Seafoamed windows, gleaming bright and frenzied. Her hair cascades like mesoglea—diaphanous and celestial
A gossamer veil between being and unbeing, trembling at the peripheral edges of a breath untaken,
Weaving absence into form, silence into song.
They share moments—each touch a negotiation with impermanence, each kiss anticipates the risk of unraveling.
No longer watching the cosmics share secrets woven in starlight, But living within slivered confidences and frosted imprints.
When the merchant arrives with his gold, The madman’s hands tremble
Grasp her fragile wrist with a violence of possession, And in that instant, Creation devours
itself
Did he not love me?
Oh, the tender snap of promise, the staccato of raining shards–of every gentle touch, every kiss branded
into her transparent skin, her tears carve rivulets, rivulets into fragments, again, a testament to the violence of creation
Night after night, the lonely man walks the shore once more, collecting fragments of sea glass
Mourning the presence of a soul he both created and destroyed, Each shard a memory, each memory a wound.
Wendy's Cherry Farm 