Sunday

Wasted time gathers at the edge of my eyes,
peripheral shadows resembling regret
weave tapestries recounting the horrible year
using yarn spun from the clothes of the dead.

Frost halts the breath in your mouth,
and cold occludes the word.
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The soul sickness that swirls inside heeds its own laws and time,
Surging and seething the salty tide
ensures wayfarers demise.

Stalwart and strong the captain stands
holding the lantern up high,
the ghostly glow crept over the boat
exposing the spray and froth and the brine.

From miles away
the lamp penetrates
the shadowed veil of the raging swell.

From my window, from my house on the beach, I see the light bob madly about in the ocean's furious storm. I would if I could send a fleet of fine ships or conjure some Divine protective aura to aid that struggling vessel. I would give Atlas rest...