High Tide

Blue dreams of an ocean.

Your face is a ghost that

watches me as I sleep.

Waves of constant motion –

I’m sick – thoughts of you

drift in the current that

keeps drifting back

to me.  Empty days are few

and become fewer still;

they swim through the water

filled with garbage, the seaweed

tangling their feet.  I will

never forget the taste

of salt as it burns my

throat, the water turning

cold as the day grows late.

©  EXCEL

203 11/14/02

Help!!  Get me outta here!!