Sunken/June/A Number

-Sunken Despite many prayers to be saved A chauvinistic troupe of sorrowful souls Send me back to my watery grave No man returns unscathed rusting brass bells sound their daily tolls Despite many prayers to be saved Though it seemed my path had been paved All revelations found beneath the folds Send me back to my watery grave I stagger, my mind worn and flayed Fate and I take our daily strolls Despite many prayers to be saved To return home, but to remain a slave To broken thoughts and unplugged holes Send me back to my watery grave No recognition for the life I gave A marriage to a name time annuls Despite many prayers to be saved Send me back to my watery grave -June It is in the night when the quiet sets in. He leans upon the studded oak and the silence negates all thought. His fear of disturbing it leaves him disabled. The banal, intruding silence succumbed to the unmitigated might of the wind. He can do nothing else but observe, and let the wind carry on with its vivacious ways. The studded oak began to dance, repeatedly scraping against the man's window. The uncut blades of grass swayed and brushed up against his hand. It was if they too felt his sorrow and woefully bowed. The wind reanimated the flayed mind, as he recalled a time when life was worth living. The water brushed up against their feet, and then retreated, exposing them, but neither felt shame. They too had broken the silence, and became entangled with the dance. He spoke her name. No longer with childlike uncertainty, but with the elegance and consistency of a man who was long gone. Her eyes widened. It was as if all practices or language had lost all understood meaning. In the new silence, the silence born from the dance, they felt as if they were, for the first time, truly speaking. He knew he'd be seeing her, but in the places she is not. He stroked her hair, with incessant focus, knowing it would be the final time. The strands seemed to wrap around his fingers, whispering thoughts into his ear. The thin pines of the palm poked his back, begging him to stay. He knew what had to be done. He stormed off, the sinking crackle of his footsteps contradicting the will of the waves and of his heart. The tide withdrew, and now he only spoke to a name. -A Number I've died first, my spirit I'll die second, my honor By then I'm dead to time