I'm a pale intruder on an unknown beach, my back to the water, my feet in the sand.
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Finding no recognition as each sign of life invades the precision of this aging land.
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An abandoned flipper in a world of storms.
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There's a man on the shoreline with a white parakeet trying to make his bird go home.
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With increasing continuity endless space gazes 'round the periphery not disheartened, wearing it's most inexpressible face.
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My instinct is double as the waves roll by, but my vision is halved and the foam in the green as the insects talk to the blazing sky.
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Wax in the ear, stitch in the side, wolves are feast for the blind, under and over, the why and the wherefore;
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easy to sit back with time, driving discussions like cranes through the car park setting them all in a line.
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All interceding, not yet proceeding misleading doubts in the mind.
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I'm a pale intruder on an unknown beach, my back to the water, my feet in the sand.
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Needing no recognition as each sign of life invades the precision of this aging land.
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On An Unknown Beach
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| Amanda Palmer |
