Touch them, the pretty smooth whetted pebbles in the sand land. You know they bang together with a fantastic thud, after all this head-bongo you have heard before.
On the washing sound of the ocean, your neighbors hear a howl. But the smooth and grey cobbles are gently darkened in your show. Their figures soft contours made.
Why do this riverstones lie in the middle of a dry patch of sand? Mystery. It's like a Zen garden collided with high sea.
Water, it's so cold, and then so warm. Good god, you can's just turn and lie. That same liquid urges you away.
So in tattered and white clothes, through tunics I can see her bones. Seen her face in washed up bodies and beached carrion.
Figures of drowned and bloated monsters, of a swollen face lie in a cirlce down under my tangled and broken up leg. And the yelping puppy dogs, we call them children while they rot, rotating, and trapped inside water-solid kegs.
Peace and love into that place, where no thought ever occurs. An Enlightement only the black rocks of the shore understood.
What a strange estuary, you said to her, where people forget all their wisdom, how to swim, and only one type of plant grew. Where that Enlightement occurs. Where the athelete struggles to emerge from her suave tomb.
So dark sometimes you can't see past your nose, only in thunders the fear stood.
There will be a sun here, but no a cover for the weak.
The wind will still blow past her rosy cheeks.
The brooks will all end here.
But don't just let go, don't become a stick of bamboo, don't let your bones turn into my favourite kind of wood.
Because if you do, sixty years later the water will again rise up, and this body, will tense up too.
Extremities and all.
Now in my age, one is paralyzed, the other's necrotized. And you know that when someone drowns, they either trash alot or simply sink, sink like rocks into the stinky refrigerator/water mould.
But I wanna see that face of yours without the crash of Thor, wanna see my heart beating at full-force. I wanna see your visage withouth the surprise of a shock.
Yowling gurgles I can now hear, powerless; and I am reminded of my debt.
Running gently ino the fields, with you, way up above the water-holding dams.
I trip up, the world turns mad. She comes to my rescue and her I try to grab.
Then looking to her eyes she just gently smiles. I can remember the peace of those green-blues sometimes saphire.
Looking right at me, rest in her pure soul. All the puppy-dogs and assortment of things they gather up below.
And you can apreciate the bitter irony there, at eighty-years of age, when you slip up in the yard, on the very same riverstone, and fall to the ground, rescued from your pound.
All just to die pill-paralized into your afternoon bath.
Dear son I tell you then, my cadaver will rise, I'll be part of this world, don't mourn me just too much. Don't judge just so hard. Don't look in to my drawer.
I will float up into the light and then everything will be clear, while my body gorges, on the tub, and looks up into a sixty watt-bulb.
No more questions, no more trouble, bye bye. I will be selfless and free of my toil,
Dragged down by her bones, scared by her ghost. I think my heart might have stopped.