A small brisk of foam. Tainting the shore as the water laps back and forth.
The tide, a sound of infinite molecules, all at the edge of your feet.
The sand is so cold, darkened from the residue of water, destined to never dry.
Back and forth, the water comes again, briefly soaking your feet with its grip, only to draw back yet again.
Blackened waters, you can't see what's beyond the horizon of bobbing waves. The sky's color, lack of hue and saturation. Fog drifting just barely high enough to be mistook for clouds.
Back and forth.
The water is so cold, colder then the sand. Beneath the surface, sand is pulled and drawn back in. Forced forward by the tiny waves. They barely press against your ankle with every swift motion of water.
The lighthouse, it's off. There's nothing to guide, nothing to bring home. No one is lost, no one is desperately steering their ships. Trying to make it back to what isn't there.
There's not a single boat on those waters, not a single light to be gifted to them. No one is trying to figure out where they are.
Except for you.
Back and forth.
There's no way out to the water, beyond the horizon.
There is only the shore, and fog.
There is only you.
YOU ARE READING
Sickening Poetry
PoetryJust a poem book, mostly small, short poems. Maybe a big poem here and there but This is just for fun. Nothing serious.
