Eventide welcomes water near tepid, swells soothe the bedded.
Drifting, an abandoned vessel, free from ugly and beautiful people, head back, eyes closed, calm collecting sounds of mating crickets stridulate, as hands cut through water, I float beneath the railroad trestle.
No waves, no past-time haunting riddles, just ebon water and eyelids deciphering symbols of the sleeping.
Dawn’s pride is bleak, its oncoming streams pouring needles into the morning tide.
Birds chirping in the morning nudge the sun awake as I rouse from the chill.
Songs of sadness share notes of ones who writhed in despair before choosing to help Sisyphus push that boulder up the hill.