I cannot help but think “What if it fell?”
Down, down through the toil and thunder and rickashay boom, plundering through waves while currents collapsing beneath firey wake,
‘Til nothing more is left but the subtle soul, wafting through twisted hunks of rusty metal, Silent.
Those whose voices are the waves and an echo so far beneath,

It is unheard of but to fishermen and madman so far out of touch with their own existence that they are like that of the boy who cried wolf, who howled and screamed when his sheep were slaughtered, when guts and wool were left to rot.

I cannot help but think “What if it fell?”
And staring out at cotton wake of blue and cream,
Floating.
Oh, so serene, but yet a veiled violence awaits thee, I know it is so.