There  is a point of perception

Slowly reaching assimilation

The taste that drives me onward

The Crisis that dissipates with every right turn--

The right question

Mazes of tense preparation becomes the flood

That ebbs and sinks my feet deeper into sand

The tide, my hands by my side

Breath succumbs with the slipping horizon

Don't you say?

Speak up.

Engineer the masses; footprints

I cannot make footprints

I am loosely fumbling for air

Once I was proud searching for an urchin

In low tide

Now I am stuck poorly sucking in

When I need to move out

Driving every opportunity:

The salt, the wounds,

My hands gravely grasping grains of sand

Pull me out of this vision, this prison

Pleading for release