violent ocean waves,
ebb and flow,
down by the dock,
a salty symphony of sound,
tides rise up and then recede,
following a cadence that can soothe, then pierces,
while the broken heart crashes in the middle of a tidal wave
and gets lost at sea
wind whispers through the trees,
crying a lullaby to put the mind at ease,
as leaves ruffle to a divine rhythm,
symphony in a jagged line,
lacking melody, the air grows stale and cold,
a soulful song that clamps up the moment it is sung
the spoon thrown against the wall,
forced to carry out a facsimile of a drama written long ago,
without any intervention from the peanut gallery,
i stay out of whatever might be going on
and sip on celestial brews without a name,
so please don’t call my name
Fred Aiken Writing 