Sea of Floor
Can’t shut my eyes or the grave spin begins. You are loud in a quiet room of reverent thought of first principles and attributes that describe the total reach of space. And when cans go out of place and the rhythmic stride becomes both our meter and hallowed record of our days, our fate - what then my eyes? my spleen? may despair ever on a candle and spots on the floor I cannot reach now. I shall try my dear but chalk is all that cuts from the otherwise violent sea. Where are the papers, admiralty pages and host clocks that would forever smooth our days? Where is the sea, our sea, laconic, late, that scores my forever lonely praises?