just when you think you can’t make the ink flow,
get a hold of that feather,
make the blood spill.
you’ll be surprised,
as the shore will cry out the content of the ocean..
and then tHe rays of the sun dry the depth after,
then it becomes a platform only you can work on,
a stairs only you can climb,
but then,there are people born like you…
even after the depth is dried,
after there is a land behind again,
they still surf on your platform….
paddle their boat on your stairs,
because they know it sill has always been the ocean….
perhaps the shore was never meant to cry out the ocean,rather give it what it never had…
a path to dry land,
a path to where it can finally be useful again,
a path to a second life…
poetry has only but these to offer.