Rocks line the bay
to keep our emotions from slipping out to sea,
and so we sit and wonder…
or, we would,
if we thought at all.
the desire to release the riches in our minds,
they seek a road to walk upon,
but they wither,
rendered stale hatred instead.
Stir the malaise,
counter-clockwise to agitate the current,
there’s a boiling truth waiting
beneath the haze…
steamed tears in the mist.
©June 2015, Christina Anne Hawthorne