Each day breaks, as a wave would
Crashing into my senses and awakening me to
my bedrock of nonsense and idleness.
I awake with a spray of anxiousness.
I imagine gull cries to herald the morning
(another wave crashes, then it lapses away without notice)
I stand dumbfounded, uncertain, before another day
I search for a fresh breeze and wipe a salty sting from my brow
scene after scene, incident after incident,
wave after wave, each with a potential to
crash the shallow meaninglessness I wade in –
and provide real hope of achieving,
of completing one’s self
Chris George
From the collection entitled “At 42”
June 2004
