that itself stands in unconscious reverie,
and look deep into murky waters,
which merely crashes upon barnacle ridden rocks,
and froths its afterthoughts into scum that drifts to shores.
The smell of sedentary silt is whisked into the air,
and mingles with memories of fresh, soothing innocence,
a mixture so heady it is practically undistinguishable from
pure delectation or rancid bile:
Both evoke nausea in their overindulgence.
The birds make life from this breath,
and as I stand peering into the depths of the abysses
destruction, peering into the endless tar-coloured nothingness,
the crushing sense of demise is inevitable.
I had not realized that me,
staring into the monster, meant that the monster stared into me,
not realizing the ocean of doom and weeds,
blossomed within the shallows of my own seas.