On the shore of Bartholomew
I wait for ships to pass
and sit engulfed in white foamy mountains.
You would wait so long
so very long for calamity to strike
in such a place,
and yet, wish it to come.
For it is not the quiet spring that brings me the next day.
It is the heart wrenching sirens
that alert me to the air of night
the tides that riot in my bay
that drench me in change
and force me to comply.
Only the anger of the tides
can steer me to change my course
in this stagnant swamp of nonchalance.
And nothing on this earth
truly, nothing here or then
can help me to see harder,
be better, live smarter
but the mist clearing away
like the swept knife to the horizon.
YOU ARE READING
roots
Поэзияpoems about the creatures of the sea, the blood in my roots and my passion with the visceral. My journey in religion, coming out and fighting mental illness as a creative and an artist with a fighting spirit.
