Nostalgic Solitude

Sometimes your tide pulls me out to sea
And I die in a thrashing curse
Sometimes we are kind
More often, I doze
So far up the beach that those who try to reach are burnt
alive in the searing heat of the desert of my dispassion
So far removed, I never hear the water
'Cept once or twice a month when I see a mirror

And I refuse to believe in some of the things that are said to behere
Let alone those that are not
I'm trying to change my direction
Ours is pathetic in my own humble estimation