Oscillating Squall

From the rock

Came water

and salt

 

lost in the decay of another day. 

I am not a daisy

nor a flower

Nor the herb of Ophelia

 

I saw her once in the garden

Among the fresh lilies of the river.

A thought that soon would quiver

 

I felt the pain rush, again

Lost.

Thoughts quiver.

 

Only to lose momentum

in the sound

 

of the sound

 

 

of the sound.

 

Caught in the inoperent, day-dreaming tremor

 

Of lives gone by with no use

To either.

 

The smile of a seagull, the gaze of a gorilla 

I am lost in the summertime whimper.

 

Not with a bang

But a whispering clang

 

I shiver.

 

And from the clay came the restless, immovable dagger.