Seaweed stranded
By the retreating tide,
Suddenly I am
High and dry.
I wilt, I wither -
How I wish
I could weep,
But there is no
Saltwater
Left within sight,
Let alone prepared
To fall
From these eyes;
To rinse out
The sand.
It is a beach,
But it feels
Like a desert.
I am nowhere, nothing -
Even if my mouth
Was not filled with sand,
I would still
Have nothing to say.
My mind,
My soul,
Are scorched -
I cannot think.
It is as though
I am the beach;
Like those jagged
Little grains
Of golden sand
Have crept around
My eyeballs,
Down my throat,
And seized this body
From the inside
Out.
I don't know how
To coax them
Back out.
I am the mundane,
The mundane is now
Me: I will not fight it -
Each time
I have tried to cough
The sand from
My lungs,
More has poured in;
More dust,
That - up close -
Is beige,
Not golden;
Sharp,
Not silken.
I don't know when
The tide will
Return for me,
But I am dying,
Withering into
Nothingness,
Rotting into the ground.
All I know
Is that I am alive,
That I am dying,
That I will soon
Be dead.
This pain will keep me
Awake a little longer,
And I cling
To my suffering
Like the frightened creature
I am.
I long to live
Til the tide retrieves me,
Sweeps me back
To glory,
But I just don't know
Whether I can.
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
