Ocean Mist on a Quiet Evening
by Phil Senat
Sitting back on the high rise
waiting for a seemingly opportunistic ending
Is it by the recollection of the past that we retrieve sincerity?
or is it by the record kept at the graves of our beloved branches.
The tree bark cracks and shows the history of many, the dark splotches
showing the parts where we daresay we forgot to water and the
continuation of those God considered worthy.
But I still believe life flourishes in the emptiest of places
even if that so happens to be a grave disaster.
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