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.