I am neither the rolling wave, nor the warm sand between your toes;

I am the savagery of the tide ripping away at the sea floor.

You were content to sunbathe beneath your golden curls;

I was left to pray to the desert sand for water.

All of my self-proclaimed, prophetic jetsam;

what weak ink to be sloshed upon your paper!

Now that the sun sets, you’ve come to comb for pearls;

my words are picked over, only broken shells remain.

No wonder I fall again, on knees encrusted with blood;

complete abandon, singing bhajans into the ocean.