Yard Sale of Thoughts

Sent by god 
to give the surf a warning,
my priest casts demons from the sea,
sinister creatures lurking below 
frothy, white peaks.

With fingers stretched like breakers,
webbed and wide,
he holds the power of blessing
like the promise of a rising breeze. 

For what are we, 
if not soaking wet sycophants,
frozen by our own reflections.
We flood the planet, 
eroding any shoreline
existing naturally.

And if my priest 
wades too deep,
he may not make it back to our side,
for tug of tide and sway of surf,
are often more than cross can ride.

For what are we 
if not servants
to all the things we can not foresee.

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