A foghorn cradles the morn.

It’s a forlorn sound,
the call of a bygone drifter-
a sound I recognize all too well.

Arches of water, black as bane,
rise high around me,
crumbling with thunder,
like sword against sword in
the raging war between sand and sea.
Fingers of foam bleed out from the battle,
clawing into obsidian sand that
glistens like hot coals.
I am small,
insignificant,
a grain of clay waiting to be washed by the surf,
swallowed by a sea of eternity.
My hair dances with the salt,
far freer than I will ever be,
and I am mocked
by that dark, watery line
that glimmers at the end up my fingertips,
unreachable.

It’s a heavy feeling,
the anchor between my ankles-
a feeling that’s weighed me long and well.

A foghorn cradles the morn.

I’ve been a bit inactive this past week, mostly due to the stress of school and exams and all those dismal dealings. I’m also absorbed by my current work-in-progress (just hit the halfway point!), so sorry for the lack of new content.

 I molded this poem from an old piece I had sitting around my documents. It’s a bit rough around the edges, so I might come back to it later to tweak it.