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Submitted on
December 7, 2012
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Early in the morning I see her on the shore.
Her figure so thin, her hands are sore.
Sent out to catch the fish,
Needed for the evening dish.

Her hands are cold,
Her line is old.
Slowly she threads the hooks,
Wrong bait it's from the looks.

I see a "Could tell you but I won't",
She thinks it's a good one but I don't.
"Another time perhaps" hangs also on the line,
"You wouldn't understand" she thinks is just as fine.

As she drags the hooks through the dirt,
I see what hangs from every third.
"Tell you another day."
Her boat drifts on the bay.

She casts the line and waits.
Heavy words are used like weights.
What she thinks with eyes so distant;
I cannot say her eyes are not consistent.

I can see sorrow,
Fear of tomorrow,
Tension and a forced smile,
All shattered and somewhat vile.

A ruffle on the water, the line stretches tight
She reels it, unhooks what comes to light.
Stunted fish, desperate and starved,
Kills'em with a bludgeon crudely carved.

It's her catch and will keep her alive;
It's what she needs to thrive.
The bow turns, she's rowing back,
On the beach I can see her shack.

I wonder who she would be,
If she could listen to the sea.
It wants her to cast out her soul,
If catching free spirits is her goal.

But who wants to expose one's inner self,
If you can use pretense right off the shelf?
Who wants to pierce the soul with rusty steel,
Only to see it snatched right off the reel?

How much courage does a lady need,
To use her very soul as feed.
And yet… what she'd  rip out from her core,
Would be carried back to her and more.

The nature of those to find her line,
Would allow two souls to combine.
Quenching thirst, hunger and the heaviness of heart,
With wonder, fantasy, humor and art.

But all that will never come to pass;
My fishmonger likes stunted bass.
Convenience, cowardice and convention dictate her fashion;
Truth, openness and honesty are not her passion.
Just another mental technicolor burp.

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