I'm a pale [bad word] on an unknown beach, my back to the water, my feet in the sand.

 Finding no recognition as each sign of life invades the precision of this aging land.

 An abandoned flipper in a world of storms.

 There's a man on the shoreline with a white parakeet trying to make his bird go home.

 With increasing continuity endless space gazes 'round the periphery not disheartened, wearing it's most inexpressible face.

 My instinct is double as the waves roll by, but my vision is halved and the foam in the green as the insects talk to the blazing sky.

 Wax in the ear, stitch in the side, wolves are feast for the blind, under and over, the why and the wherefore; easy to sit back with time, driving discussions like cranes through the car park setting them all in a line.

 All interceding, not yet proceeding misleading doubts in the mind.

 I'm a pale [bad word] on an unknown beach, my back to the water, my feet in the sand.

 Needing no recognition as each sign of life invades the precision of this aging land.