An ideal shines bright as hope,

when it dawns on us that we can't learn

to breath water

but can swallow air.

And nothing changes,

or gives us the chance to change,

unless none of it will be for the better.

Instead of going we were growing.

And in a crystal ball,

our future swirled to show an oncoming tide

which whippes waves across our pale cheeks

to give them the appearence of life.

And next we found our voices

in the heartbeats of shells.

As inconsistent as they were,

we were ovewhelmed by presence.

The ongoing existence of anything

would leave us in wanting,

waking to see half te day gone and alarm bells

still ringing

because we've let our own ears shy away from sound

like our eyes now shy away from light.

All the while we're washed with saltwater

to cleanse every scar,

and all the while we excape from the ocean

with our souls remaining untouched.