By the shore’s edge where I come crashing,
The sands shift to my ebb and flow,
I rise and swell,
Roll, curl and break,
Slipping back, back under the undertow.
My brokenness percolates the sand,
Water through a sieve,
Tapping fingers of the ocean’s hand,
It’s a tidal life I live.
Manic-depressant, the higher I rise,
The more spectacularly I fall,
And “Crash,” my rolling thunder cries,
Muffled by the siren’s call.
“Where you were born and life began,
Come back,” she implores, “Come back.
Where you were born and life began,
Before the rocks were sand.”
“Come back,” she wails, “Come back,
Come back into the womb,
The primordial soup where life began
Before the rocks were sand.”
Before the rocks were sand,
Amoebas innocently lingered,
The oceans opened up their hands
And I became their fingers.
“Come back, return, come back, it’s time,
I’m all you’ve ever dreamed of,
Long before ancient rocks wore down to sand,
I’ve held you, in my love.”