A Perfect Storm

Your blood

has surged through me

for 38 years,

4 months,

3 days,

yet you and I

are no more familiar

than two specs of sand

sundered by the Sidari.

If tears were oceans

and fathers, ships,

a thousand lifetimes wouldn't be sufficient

for you to find your way

to shore;

your sea-worn hull

would be at my mercy

until time slowed to a stop

at the hands of God Himself.

If brothers were moons,

the gravity of a shattered heart

would tug at my tide,

a celestial puppet master

to render your wheel a nautical marionette,

his crescent grin

leering at your wet bow.

If regret were a rudder,

you would have been aimless

with or without

the tempest of our torment.

But even a perfect storm

can fulfill its fury,

grace unfurling through the swells,

the Pacific,

a pen in the hands of the

Author of Accord.