It seems dire at first glance:
A collection of limbs made of disparate grains
sat with resignation by a shore’s invasion march,
awaiting though never pursuing a future collapse;
a temporary life.
Chipped from stone to be less than its whole,
stumbling over the bare minimum of atoms,
falling into those with scattered pieces,
and the castle that emerges rarely equals the parts;
an inelegant time.
Put stock into sand.
Is it shocking when it crumbles?
Placed trust in rusted bones.
Is it shocking when they halt?
In the freeze of oxidation coughed up from a manakin’s breath,
is it shocking to find love is as cold as was predicted?
Reflections on the lake of consciousness.
The beaches are wiped of debris,
fabric of being drifting to newfound shores
where Locke proclaims a victory.
A temporary life.
A graceful arm intertwined in a crippled companion
comes as the wistful touch of a ghost;
merely a whisper against skin,
tingling the hairs as a surge of receding light
where a spirit was buoyed by its appointed lighthouse.
It bleeds into vision clear enough to regret,
yet obscured to where it cannot be trusted.
The question of hindsight needs no and has no answer.
An inelegant time.
Remembered only in creeping phases,
the faces seen and encountered in voice.
Temporary lies in a temporary life.
New shores beckon.
The victory is short-lived.
( ❤ Mitch)