Stilled in frozen waters within,
Three-fourths the man awaits freedom.

Already at thirty-six the core gives way,
The center cannot hold,
And the man begins decay.

Yet the flesh that bounds
Life to form–holds
As the insidious drip seeps through
Contracted cracks of a melting mold.

But still, the pressure mounts
Like swollen tides, beating down stormy shores.
And, I, the islander, await to see
The fury that will wash away
So many lines of a darkened time.

When the mid-night ebb crawls back to bay
And scars that stood have weathered away,
Morning light from seasons new
Shall resolve crystals of indecision
                                              into a dew.

And once more I will find peace
In the watery tenders of my mind.

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