The seashells near the ocean
where I grew up are storytellers.
Every morning, feet burning ... [+]
If you find my sorrow
keep it. It has been too long
festering and coagulating
and self congratulating.
And I, unbound by it,
might maybe hopefully finally
reach those floating cities
perched on colossal turtles
whose shadows we grieve under
and leave us begging for purchase.
But probably likely doubtlessly
I will just end up pining for it
the same way the sand longs for
the tiny creatures leaving their eggshells
that disturb its grainy pattern
leave into turbulent and bitter water.