The Sea.
Wild, dark,
deep.
Indifferent to where
we wrap arms in sleep.
But it beats daily against our
staunch sand
wanting nothing less than to eat as much as it can.
Twisting, tearing, lurching, reeling
our paper boat
slammed into the ceiling.
Too clever are these waves of distress, coursing through our home seeking to crash into kind song on foggy nights, long laughter, tender, sleepy mornings.
Success as they sputter our dying desires.
Sad looks as our little ships drift into different angles of the same moonlight. You will sleep under yours and I
under mine.
A different patch of night which so badly I hoped we could share.
And the sea will do as always, act indifferently paying no mind to the gulls crying as they tend to do, yet relentlessly will drown our
shores.
About the Creator
Mark R. Cieslak
Trying to tell some of the silly stories that crowd my head. Maybe you like one. If not its still cheaper than therapy.
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