Where I can speak without a face so that my thoughts float up to the surface of these tides in their own place
These words will weave a web around the patterns of my demise like seaweed on a sinking thing or dreams removed from undead eyes
There is a storm raging in the center of the sea and angry waves rushing mercilessly towards me
There is a hopeless pit of dread that threatens to swallow me and a heart that beats in broken threads of tragedy
There are the silver linings woven into days to light the hours of our moments and the madness of our ways
There are a thousand steps towards and then a single drop away
There is the unexpected gut ache of a growing disarray
pandaplatter 