Every sea I meet.
Don’t believe in apologies.
Crashing every time she speaks.
A wave.
Comes to leave again, just checking in
to dig the beaches in my head.
Seagulls prey on leftovers
while we walk on the beach.
We once drew lines in the sand,
never found a chance to finish them.
Old man white boy reggae man.
Lost little soul inside a van.
Saw you share your reggae song,
the water couldn’t help, but pass it along.
Felt I was done.
The sound of distance hitting sand.
Sand that’s slipped between two hands.
Crushing every time I land.
A bridge.
This way or that way, suspending the day.
Plays with my balance.
Lighthouse, pay attention.
Guide me toward the beach
where we wrote dreams in the sand,
for I’ve found time for living them.
Young man, old boy, artist man,
makes the day’s song as he had planned.
Water waits, ripples heard that man speak his word
and they were shook
and they were stirred and
she sailed off her beat.
She don’t believe.
She don’t believe in apologies,
and I guess that’s all I need.
Building towers, digging moats for bridges.
But she don’t believe in apologies.
this is your life chuck johnson 