The waters lap at the shore.

Trying to quench the dry earth.

The feeling he rides is no longer sure.

His death came before her birth.

The seedling sprouts from the ground.

Ready for life and a little sun.

But weeds have grown all around.

He is hidden as he seeks and it’s no fun.

The doorbell rings and he takes a minute to answer.

Misses the connection, it’s time for a correction.

 

The bus pulls away from the station.

His heart pounds from the sprinting.

His soul has been on vacation.

And now his obituary they are printing.

He catches the last phone light.

Migraine pounds in his head.

He created his own plight.

He chose the path he has led.

The doorbell rings and he takes a minute to answer.

Misses the connection, it’s time for a correction.

 

The book snaps shut just as he closes the door.

No bookmark and the story is now dead.

He had just figured out what he would settle for.

And now in a white satin gown, his words lay in bed.

He missed that last perfect word.

And now his poem has no rhyme.

His rhythm just feels absurd.

He is almost out of time.

The doorbell rings and he takes a minute to answer.

Misses the connection, it’s time for a correction.

 

Lucky will he be if he finds her on time.

For she will make a dam for his waters.

Prune the weeds so he can prime.

Give him sons and daughters.

His heartbeat shall slow down to be in tune with hers.

She shall wait till he boards.

They will rhyme on each page and become connoisseurs.

The rhythm shall be found as she strums his heart chords.

The doorbell rings and he does not answer.

She served as his correction, he found his true connection.

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