by Christopher Turner
The chill that defines these resolute waters
Is the one delineation of separate distractions.
The graceful floating turmoil
Complicates te obvious.
Setting sun, closing eyes,
The lies obscured by shadow.
Here in the simple cold I relish the comfort of nerves.
Free of definition,
Explanation or infraction.
I wait out the flurried waves
And drench them in my focus.
Returning favors--robs me of my lies
And I'll rob you of your sight.
You will always be blind to that which becomes me.
You will always be denied
What you try to take away from me.
And I will trace the map
Of your devastation all the way out to sea.