The quiet trepidation tied in me,
by a life that would one day end,
that I’d die wounded,unheard,silent,
Would you, if you love me,
hear, as I cry and scream in pain?
as I wail and weep pull out my hair,
as I complain, grow weak, frail,
would you then pray for my life?
and hold me dear, mother.
Or would you leave me unloved,
to die, not really dying,
that I’d be a rusty nostalgia,
an impromptu grief, grown accustomed.
A memory buried in the loose sands,
the filling in and out
of the sand, water,the memory,
leaves you with a dewy conscience.
it said with two bricks marking it,
an unclaimed memory,
put to rest,
with the sea breathing
and lulling them
into an oblivious slumber.
as worthy as life itself(?)
someone’s grieved kin,
carelessly, left to decay,
it’s doubtful immortality,
it’s questioning absence
A mind finally at peace.