Weaving between the mass of smiles
along the Santa Monica Pier
is a reminder of how wonderful life is
when it can be shared with strangers.
The creak of aging wood underfoot
could barely be heard over the laughter
belted by children tasting the salted air
as their parents shell out dollars for rides.
The hum of the street players
singing and dancing to the tune
of their heartbeat and the ocean
fills the last crevices of loneliness
nearly every afternoon.
But I can still remember one dark Sunday
in the rainy mid-Autumn sloughs
where the only noises to accompany me
were the distant swallows of the sea.
The mist was heavy then, thick
with the remorse of a broken country,
and the players’ last song had gone out
long before the cloudy sun had risen.
The rank sickness of mortality
seemed to creep from the slits
of darkness hiding under the planks,
and the evil kept at bay by purer hearts
slunk out, unafraid of the silence;
rotting the wood and metal alike.
Those towering straights of humanity
forged in the fires of dreamers
turn to blighted nightmares, spoiled
without the people who loved them
to keep it fresh and wholesome.
And I was filled with the same dread
of a man, not much older than you,
who had felt his world slip away
in the trenches of a peaceful life.
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Quick mentions, I found this cover photo on Dirty Lens Photography, and I don’t own it.