When all seems hopeless
and the wind howls its lonely song
and the ocean, once a friend, burns white
each wave a muted sob, like broken plates
heard crashed through bedroom doors,
and the burnt blood brick of the sea wall moans
as if about to crack

this is nothing but a mad rush
and one day you will look back
on your tortured soul
as a parent does a child
all pink cheeks and trembling
lips, mourning
the astonishingly important loss
of a birthday balloon
to the clear blue sky.



Listening to Mad Rush by Philip Glass helped write this poem