Poet's lament

If the sea demanded the contents of our souls we would 
   comply.

So how isn't it the same for your lover?

The face of love is the same knives edge we are terrified 

   we can't show the world;

One has to give everything. I've nothing to give to love.

Instead my mail is sent elsewhere. Maybe to Africa,

Where hungry mouths suffice for a part of yourself to sleep

   well at night.

In another life I could have given everything. 

As a child all I had was the casum of imagination.

Now the sea fills that void and I'm always sending it

   everything. 

My rust bucket body buried at the shallowest parts of 

   the entry into the sea, 

Seeing me a cripple, or invalid , if it's more palatable?

What about, Walking challenged?

I can't make it sound what it's not. It's horrible.

I'm a poor reflection of who I ought to be. Emptied as a 

   container.

It's not very nice to believe the things I see.

A lack of hope during the sun shine, an engine of wind

Pushing forward people's most unlikely steps.

People like me spare one the pleasantries of dreaming.