These waves dart, back and forth,
the sand rises, disperses, riddled
with pervasive salts.
Four robust stilts halt
this inexorable tide, while
I wait, suspended,
locked in this gaol for eternity,
now slow is the back and forth
rock, and stone and silt,
they are whispering to me,
imploring me to return, taunting
me because I can’t.
Left more to my thoughts now,
invaded by the slaughtering juggernauts:
Anger and Jealousy, they feed their
vigour through my absences, as I
shuffle on this swaying beech,
infected with rot and decay.
I am drawn to the edge, to
stare down and see only the stretching
wooden dais, underpinning my shack of
abandonment. The grey pebbles
beyond are forsaken, lost in the
cacophony of losses.
Shards of regret pierce me,
biting, ever more acerbic,
circling my thoughts once more
to the irony: four wooden stilts and
the rocker, and I, trapped
in this impassable no man’s land.
Ineffable is the void, halted are
my pleasures; I am left with
one comrade: Grief. Grief for my own
splintered stumps.
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