My feet buried from view,

I’m unable to see the burial below me.

Layers of sand shoveling higher,

clinging to the toes.

 

I cry, as all people do during a burial,

though not of sadness,

but the fiery salt water

deciding my vision was not

a necessity.

 

And oh the pomposity,

 

 

that the jellyfish decided

tardiness wasn’t an issue.

The discourtesy stung, literally.

The tears no longer artificial.

 

Tales of my feet must have been told,

of stomping sand castles

and wading through waves,

 

Well, from I can guess anyways

as all I can see are the

exhaled breaths of aquatic life,

bubbling to the surface.