Waiting at the Water's Edge

Where will my world go?

I watch its framework fall,

but know not where it lands.


The vessel of wood carried my life upon it.

Could they guess their creation was to be their coffin?

I could not have known.

Not I, Sir, not I.


For under the sunlight of heaven,

that twinkles upon its ants,

who crawl so orderly below,

there is a shining brilliance

too bright for clarity,

for catastrophe.


 Under the water that works to consume the ship,

the watery gloom casts a shadow of reality

upon the bliss they called their lives.


The masts that held the ship so strong

are the first to perish.

The upright, the rigid will go.

Without flexibility, the strong will snap

as quick as two fingers,

striking the flint that ignites the fire.


The strong float to the shore of the earth,

from which they were made,

only to be unformed back into their life source.

And I, the weak one,

lit the fire.


I will sojourn with my likeness

and return to the world from which I was born.

My remains, flesh of nothing,

will only decay into the ground below,

attracting the flames of hell

to lick the earth and enrich it,

so that the mulch may grow another tree strong enough,

that it may sail a ship as I did.

that it may sail a ship as I did.

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This poem is inspired by William Waterhouse's painting The Tempest, and represents what I think the woman in the painting feels as she watches the ship sink.

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