The sea called and I came with bells on.
The trees fall and there’s no one to hear them.
I still yell timber in my nature.
I’m a blue ox for babes at times.
It lasts just long enough for me to write it out.
No tall tales.
Not a fan of Paul.
They never met.
Sometimes that is what failed jaded lovers wish.
I watch so-called stars feign a lover’s kiss.
I then wonder how much of a hand mimicry of such
has on the mockery of love that passes for some.
Passing is to die.
Passion in decline works the lower chest
to straining and burning
and unrequited yearnings
to hasten the worlds turning
to the point where that one comes to their senses.
Has anyone tried bathing with soap in the open ocean?