Through our tiny tears
Thought desires drier eyes,
Music’s sun shines
Stillwater ships despise
Slip she said
An echoing light along a surfing screaming sand
The surface soundless in entranced entrance
Where weeds were we and we carelessly grown
Cautiously hidden as dirty drifting grass
In hallowed windy words
Hungry happenstance world
Happiness concluded a solitary seed
And wanting force so forfeits a plain vain aviator
Friends of the pack are now pack-less, alone
Chilled childish minds now suddenly mild
A millstone animal to roam at random
Geared great into the tragic comedy
Manifest manifold untold, just old
Anxious sea


Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column 7x appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.