I listen to the words
the sound of breath
the pulse
the urge
the weight
and wait.

The waiting is always the signal
for disappointment

The waiting looks to tired eyes
like the drowning of men

It smells of rock-less seas
of mediocrity

But then the breeze

I dare not believe
the words that feed
an emotion that awakes
a cry for the departed

and a hope for future giving.

Time to bite my tongue
bite the finger
spike the palms

A birth? Yes indeed.
An awakening cry
is also song for gulls.

It is 5am and I breathe.

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