Defining sequence

And if like a cloud
   you are caught between
the drift, or bursting open

into scant consideration.
   Off your limits, contemplating
death - slow and quick

like a shipwrecked sailor.
  And if like the abandoned
lie, you are someone's greatest

memory, the unworn rope
  around the sea - one that
always finishes in someone's

 hands. There is silence to look
  forward to, and look back upon
 like there is water, at the
 
middle of the ocean - an ocean
 incapable of curbing its appetite
for the deserted, and the loved alike.

It's me, not you

Breakwater types 

 that men like to hold on to,

dress in envelopes

 and send to whosoever will read them,

thoughts are like 

 lacerating muscles

unveiled to look 

  their nightly best

but because night rises

 and dusts itself 

after it falls, and not

 because their is the relative

evil, as there is poetry

 in a lot of unspecified space

because it simply allows

 it, to be me rather than you.

Before people were born

I lived inside the clock,
threw my head, back into

the penal jar, like the
apostrophe following

a learning, that with time
on the outside, I could die young
    and not know about it at all.

Want

Let me not walk to him
when he looks to the sea

Let us not find together, his
fists in the sand

Let me not hear him say again -
someone please get it