(no subject)

[awintersrose]

I sit upon the shoreline of these silver-crested messengers,
Looking out upon the sea
Bathed in the half-moon's light, so pleasantly,
And think of all the things I gave,
And think of all the things I failed to save,
And wonder why I shouldn't throw myself into the waves.

Each crash awakens in my heart a thousand thoughts,
And then the next leaves me alone with naught
But a moistened face
And a salty taste, but not a trace
Of tears.
(Here the clouds obscure the gentle glow,
The cotton sheet draped not at all too low,
But high enough to remind me why I'm here.)

As each wave gives it breaks and takes back to its home
The things it brought to share upon the shore.
And in the foam
It leaves for anyone who wished a memory of what
One could have kept.
But they reject
And send the wave back with its warmest love,
And send the wave back with its softest touch,
And it is seen no more.

And I think of all the things I gave,
And think of all the things I failed to save,
And wonder why I shouldn't throw myself into the waves.