The sea path

The day winter came I went to the sea,
Past the wooden fence — slat by slat
Where the dune grass grew, tangled up
In black wire, withering, cramping for
A breath, just like the day I woke, I woke
On a dream; crowded sleep, six feet of
Covers dripping cold. Image by image

Worming their way into my head — my
Skull riddled with the past usurping
My rest, relics grinding grist down my thoughts.
And a ticking clock reaching with hands
To haul me into a morning; and the sun loomed
Behind a storm, behind a rain,
The sea battening down for a pour.

I moved humbly down a path, compelled by the
Sea and by charred driftwood cheated from
A limb; tidal pools littered the beach — fauceting
From a tide. I remember the day waves
Drank my sails and washed me to a shore, the
Bed of sand wore the stain of my tragedy;
I lay dreaming in the poorhouse of innocence.

The sea is not a charity ward askew by a wooden
Fence — yet its long used by refugees hunched
In a storm, betrayed by the mere chance of a
Sail; lays the voyage waste with blackened sky,
Ransacks timber with curded waves; white gulls
Vacant, no sign of a shore. Water drenched,
We seek a pact and walk the plank with strangers.

Copyright © 11/19/17 lance sheridan®

NP sea path

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