Back at the shore, on my own this time,
I'm free now, yes, but alone.
I'm left with nothing,
No pain,
No rhyme,
On a beach less sand than stone.
The tide still licks the shore for crumbs,
But nothing hides beneath.
No voice calls out in dark, feigned scorn,
No stoic secretly cries for release.
The world outside worked magic for real,
It promised us strength in identity,
But now I'm just beginning to feel,
There's actually something wrong with me.
I can't go back until I know,
That your death has served some purpose.
What chance is there, to survive and grow,
When even ghosts can hurt us?
"Perhaps", I said, "it's all unspoken", aloud,
To myself, discovering,
How words can wound but silence drowned,
A heart that's still recovering.
A follow-up to my poem, "the Unbroken"...
I wanted to revisit "the interface" once more, where our traveler seeks new insights. Poor *******... Nothing significant here, honestly, the concepts are off-the-cuff, almost random, but the mood I wanted was one of placing the reader on the cusp of despair and a subsequent hopefulness as we try to make sense out of life's pains.