Flipping of a coin from tail to head.
cart-wheels on the beach.
Drag Queen working the beat on Commercial street.
Bare-footing, on the sultry tar.
Hidden seaport cemeteries overgrown with unknown kin.
Performed like a well manicured dance from centuries ago.
Gentle Journeymen and Women with unease being the common goal.
A sense of unique sadness for each seeker.
Respectively, all grinding down to the marrow.
Sure as there is salt in the blood.
And, annoyance from the misread.
If I could prosper my soul in this secret search.
I would unleash all that I have.
But cannot be bought.
I would rather stay a seeker.
Romanizing tales of lost love…
And, her deceivers.