Discursive

The waves, my goodbye friends
shave wind in ripe turbulence
It's strange fate, how they end
in affection's wrestled permanence.

While dangling, they are high
With rocks bathing in sand below
And with Fate's stone hand, held nigh
I pray with every raking blow.

Father warned me not to trust
Anything that ever leaves you.
But sore are my feet, Father,
planted in dust
With rusted arms, I can't believe you.