I won’t cry about it anymore.
Avoidance is a unique hobby of the lonely,
forged by shadowy bricks in their shells,
shouting tales and times long gone,
enjoyed briefly but uncherished in resonance,
so many instances poking through the fog,
cutting like shrapnel from ticked off bombs,
attempting to ignore their call,
failing to deny their bond,
energy reaching deep from shallow tides,
pooling words and sentiment that wash ashore,
not discounting a single current of saltiness,
but in these days make tears a new terrifying practice.