The happiness of most people is not ruined by great catastrophes or fatal errors, but by the repetition of slowly destructive little things.
The Resurgent Eye of the Double Hulled Ship
Pensively, a thickness sits dormant,
floats sea level, a silvery sheen
passing through decades,
latent through Presidents and
Seasons of war's ammunition filling
bright bands of tears,
thick oil spills.
A Surf Scoter suffers held
captive by blue rubber gloved hands
despondently washing away a
suffocating catastrophic tragedy.
With miles between, voices like lead are
all affected by one grinding misalignment.
She was just a child watching death.
And like the family craves order, the water
finds a systematic sensibility causing chaos
which cannot exist within.
Time after time there is perfection in a breath.