dechue
I am …
a withered leaf -
the breath of your indifference,
tossing - like every other …
we sit on sand
shoulders pressed like sinners
yet from the chill,
not familiarity …
this place, once solemn -
once our vessel
has long since betrayed us
its moon,
beams no magic
the breaks, sing not
tarnished doubloons rust the
wave tops
and the tree of love I have
wilted from,
aches in vain to see you
look at me
the way you gaze …
upon the sea.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, January 29, 2024
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