My father has eyes like a hurricane,
layers of thunder and constant rain
that mask a rocky bottom.
He used to tell me stories of oceans
seas of storm-tossed waves
where people lurked beneath the
their songs buried somewhere beneath coarse sands.
Woven stories of sea dragons and
ships among starfish,
and a world of crystalline sea glass:
blues and greens that I can only imagine
mimicked his raining eyes.
The world he created is dormant now
landlocked and bathed in dust
and I know that he is stranded somewhere
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