Eight of us sat at the table that night,
Rehashing the news,
Retelling the plots,
Familiar voices singing old songs;
Getting it right.

Between hors d'oeuvres and bottles,
One wife remarked,
She wished her husband
To be better read.
To us who knew her,
She said better bred.
A point best kept
Within her head,
Silent and unsaid.

He turned red,
The goodly man and dad,
A lad who could build
From ethereal prints in his head.

I could feel the company's dread.
He pushed his chair out,
Stood sturdy and stable,
Looked at the company
Sitting full round his table:

I can't read or write too good,
I'd be a Stooge in Hollywood,
Don't believe she said it in spite,
For forty years she's been my wife.
She knows I'll never change my ways,
She says things just to hear her voice.

Then sat with his elbows back on the table.

Woven smiles collect
              euthanasia on the ones
who cant voice through
                           desperation.

She collects the ones death,
                     tears upon.
For he pauses where
she shows empathy upon silence.

Ashes of life permeate
       through shallow tides,
weakening as shores of
                   white undercurrents
collect stagnantly on white shingles.

Corroded within each grain
          that swallows all hope of
                                          elongation.
Life is a moment crumbling to an
inevitable ending, buried beneath times silt.

Buried before our birth,
             we're  grains collecting
beneath every breath.
             As we gasp within.
Am I worthy of every fragment
           collecting within a silhouette
of times shallow grave, I'm obscured.

Oh! the glorious sails rising on the breeze
I’ve come this time to watch
and not be seen