These rocks have been diseased,
the limpet infected for all we have hoped.
Clouds burst like wounds against a septic sky,
a fevered sun glares upon fields of water,
at the edge, where landmass meets sea,
at the point of division — between the inviolable and uncertainty.
The mermaid’s hush, the gull’s desperate
flight from God’s thrashing hand.
The bitter taste of air as we drown,
before all the fire and fury that await,
we gaze at the angle our shadows make,
and hope that time can heal us now.
Image by: MontyLov via Unsplash