"Fearing Death by Water"

                         I've been dreaming of your memorable face, (preferably at stale, quaint, frail, and vulnerable midnight, posted in remarkable incandescent highlighting beside a solitary moon) for quite some time now. Broad countenances shone along moonlit beaches and ancient shorelines. Soft ivory surfaces glow through evening's shimmering charades. Sandy quay-like arenas unravel before tartar eyelids, moaning through boiling fever. Forgotten love letters and assorted flower arrangements never sent. Coastal postcards abandoned by thawed out swimming pools of illustrious design. My resilient passion for impending doom remaining prevalent. Cloud like and cloudless, the mesmerizing dunes of St. Augustine. Maternally warm sand formations and unresolved diminished centuries left wrongly embroidered between soft delicate fingertips. The enchanted wind still speaks:

                          Wind: "Yes, it is the drowning man that fears 'death by water'. While gentle tides sweep in from the vast Atlantic's perimeter. Listen, you'll still hear my voice, you don't believe me?, go ahead and listen. You'll hear horrific folly of myriad men like me that came before ye.
                          Johanna: "Yes for it is true,  I do recall correctly.  There was a man once, I loved as dearly as thee. Despite the wind, sky, and the sea"
                          Sky: "Bah!, for there is no time to ponder such things amid treacherous daytime corridors!, The clouds!, the sand!, the surf! I shall commence thunderstorms to roll in from the deep unforgiving gull-ridden east! Primitive fools! Only I shall make these decisions! It is not ye who decides! (hahaha, the laughing sky)

                           And so it was for Johanna, a dull and tedious routine to endure. Afternoon promenades to residential building establishments. Joy becoming a common disbelief. Johanna's peers and stepparents did not understand, (for it is impossible to reiterate the significance of  Jesus to a Mormon, and so it was for quite some time then).
                   
                           I, a promiscuous unadulterated boy contemplating the young ladies savory loins and pale meaty thighs. Milky white at best, it is the dismal population that ponders pretentious temperamental suicide in public fortitude and social forums. 
                         To this day you can still see adolescent Johanna, with a juvenile ear to the sea, a lackadaisical eye to the clouds. You will not see me lingering along the frost-bitten trenches of Judea. The tenant Jew lord still squats below well furnished ceiling standards in the remedial private hearth of suburbia.
                        Me to Johanna:  "Please do forgive the sky being sky, reap penitence from it's elementary teachings dear child. Learn a thing or two from the conventional lesson of the drowning Phoenician sailor (fearing death by water).