100 Days

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The curling waves

gently rock

the broken boat

some sweet lullaby

perused by you

sung soft and clinging

to my sundered shirt sleeve

bloodstained and browbeaten

over splinter-red hands.

Oh, but he put up a fight

and laughed

and danced a manic jig

over grandiose and epic tales

that lead down many winding paths

but always to the same nowhere

and here

and now

in the salt sea stung tough

perhaps I can learn

to let him cry

and sob

and wail

turning away my battered hands

from comforts touch

to trade the boy

to embrace the sea

all her mystery

as I sit simply

and watch the boat sail away

for a hundred more days.


 

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