Ron: Half of this poem is illegible.
Lex: It doesn't matter: soon enough all of it will be that way.
Ron: You know, I hate it when people become dead while living. This is often happens when they get exposed to too much metaphysical crap. . .
Ocean Reflections
Surrounded by emerald-blue immensities 
crashing in flurries of foam 
the ocean follows majestic rhythms 
better than any poem. 
	And within each drop of the pelagic sea
	the Hands of Death also weave. 
Even after leaving primal waters 
our consciousness waxes and wanes
thoughts mutate into beachside froth
and a rhythmic roar inside of us 
suggests the sea is never far away. . . 

	Nor is the Grim Reaper 
	who moves with the tide of each day.