Minesweeper

With a record number of false starts and losses. Lack of mobility; fell face down. Hit the floor. Turning now to solitaire. With a record number of cigarette tips and shots and breaths and incense burns I couldn't seem to find a way to force down. Just until my head starts caving in, and I want to quit. This is the closest you'll ever see me talking with the priest again. They couldn't get me to go even this lovely morning. The sun peeked through at 6:38 today. In through the screen, the blinds pulled half open, half ass repaired. Still a little hurt. And some things forgotten. An "I owe you" to father. Wonder if it will ever materialize. If he'll ever get that wicker swing. If he'll ever figure out what it is inside that's been eating him alive. If the vacations to the doctors with their random postulations will ever pay dividends. Before the bones decay, and the mind not far behind. I want to turn myself to sand. Build castles on the shoreline. Somewhere to retreat and hide away. Somewhere forever home. Island refuge. Peaceful slumber. My home.

Until the crashing of the wave.