South, by a beach with a cave, you never speak, but you wave back to the rocks on the shore. Eroding away, they fall to the floor, where you were diagnosed as terminally ill. Where you should be warm, in the dark you feel a chill. North, in the ice and the snow you're melting away, nowhere to go. Back to the cave in the sand, the mouth is now gone, balled up in your hand, before you swallowed hole the mouths you used to feed. I know you tried so hard, but in time we all secede. Don't feel the guilt that I deserve, your blood was spilled with flowing nerves that wrapped their veins around my throat. And though I lay, at least I float. (H. Mendell)
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