One Hundred, and One.

Our boat that failed to row ashore
lies punctured on my ocean floor
the wind filled sails that billowed home
now hang like rags, tossed and blown
No laughing breeze through wisps of hair
no steady gaze to anchor, dear
no hope filled hearts that speak in tune
that language born of love’s first bloom.
Just silent nights that boom with loss
and grief as mighty breakers toss
to salt deep wounds with stinging grains
that echo, still, with yelping pains.
These ghosts of a boundless, open sea
who taunt with hurt that drenches me
I’ll fight with flares till dawn’s light brings
new life that dances, breathes, and sings.
And I’ll pray to God forever more
that our boat may rest on my ocean floor.

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