he's on the cliff, the breaking rocks, the shape-shifting and
shattered. he only hopes that what he says outloud will be forgotten
later. regretful man, his worried hands, wrinkled from her ocean.
she's a salty sea and the man, oh he, craves her sweet pollution. the
roots that live on these troubled cliffs survive on hope and moonlight,
they cling the sharp, bitch, jutting stones and, frightened, never sleep.
from his lonely seaside window sill, the horrid saint, she taunts him still,
waving steady from below. with all her sea foam kissing the earth,
she forever keeps her fellow.