Early Morning Broken

In the tender morning silence
There is only the sound of left-over rain. 
The mist is quiet. 
But it is quiet like a sheep,
With fluctuating innocence.
It goes where the wind pushes.  
The world beyond my window
Is soft
And smells like the sea.

In dreams they are one. 
The sea and the mist. 
and together, 
As one, 
They shift. 
Of rhyming counterparts, 
The world is made,
 But, I,
Through broken pieces wade. 

Desperately clinging to scrapes, I wait. 
Terrible and always unfolded, it rings out, 
The ferry’s fog horn . 
The song I am trying to catch.