From the dour sea of stillness,
She steps onto the white sand grieving,
Her mind the color of rust;
The sound of a sunken bell clangs
Cold and final, water runs by her feet,
But by such abuses-
She feels the dying, the bones of fingers
Scaring her flesh
Twisting like corkscrews, pulling her
Into God’s city.
Relish death, child; doused by the holy sea
She wades without wetting her soul,
The waves are flat and full of dark,
Into a blackness, her pale body;
The drowned are waiting, expressionless sirens.
Copyright © 02/28/2019 lance sheridan®