PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Trip,
Habitually,
On the smallest stone.
Take a dramatic plunge
Into a half-dead sea.
The swaying face,
The surface,
Dyed the gray of bathed concrete,
Carries the fresh-washed smell
Of sadness in summer.
We’ll meet just there.

You tend to take a swim
Now and then,
Under saline clouds,
I dash by the waterside,
With hope strung like gauze
About my feet, coming unglued.

I’ll turn my face
Toward the stagnant sea
And you’ll lift your eyes
Away from mine
If we meet,
Empty eyes seeking endless ones
Under this heavy sky,
Burning without words,
Turning without telling.

I’ll slip a clearwater prayer
In your pocket
Before you go.