Imagine the force it would take
to dampen the thunder of an 808.
It would have to be holy.

But two black cocktails,
and now you’re swimming in
festering water.

Rivers are chaste
not by choice
but by determination,

yet not a current has cured a
rooted pollutant—
there is nothing godly about your silence.

For one so afraid of the depths,
you’re awfully attached to the abyss.
For one always preening her feathers,

you’re awfully influenced by forked tongues.
I guess, the horns were a small sacrifice
For wings.

During the lowest of tides
it wasn’t broken shells
that scared me.

It was
the awareness of
being swallowed whole,

and after five moons
I cursed the beach for taking you—
too naive to look up.

Without knowing the name of the wind,
you took to the skies;
flight isn’t a privilege reserved for angels.

I’m realizing the ocean’s melodies
were lost on deaf ears,
but there is an audience in confidence,

a round of applause in a clear conscience.
So I threw my drum to the water,
and let the sirens sing to my tempo.

It could never keep up with your snare anyway.
Fast and fickle.
More rhythm than rhyme.

Some hearts beat deafeningly.
Slow and with purpose.

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