Cold, dark waters are a poem in itself
that's what I'd like to think when I'm sitting here
appropriately literal, a heart that slows in winter
just enough life, one little twitch in the corner of the mouth
In the spring when dawn pretends to warm the bay
you are somewhere else, a journey into the past
a character in a play that no one has revised in centuries
carving footholds by distant seas, with home forsaken
It's unrelenting nerves that keep me at a distance
a thought that snowballs into a frenzy of my own making
the best is never abundant, and in a swallow of pity
I'm making the best with next to nothing
