The sea is the cruelest place
Its waves are broken-
Its pieces washing into empty bottles
Given to the homeless who thirst,
Its salt carried away in cardboard boxes
And poured into pockets of loitering souls.
Her shadow clutches and sinks
Into the hot dry sand
While she muses about religion
And the black crow who makes the sign
Of the cross- she paces about the beach,
Alone, the sun gives no shelter.
The cry of gulls
And the cruel sea
The brine picks
At her skin
And the drip drop
Drip drop of religion.
Her feet are in
But only her feet,
On the sea
I cannot connect
Nothing with nothing.
Burning burning burning- O father, thou
Savest thee- and her sweaty hands
On the good book, and the silence in the air
After the agony of being stoned
Dead mouth that cannot speak
Waited for salvation, the sea was calm.
Copyright © 11/10/2016 lance sheridan®