Salt shore, shells, elusive water patterns,
in a self-imposed prison of others washed ashore,
this cannot be your castle,
you’re mostly seen amongst the green …
Gossamer wings bore you here,
light reflecting on their veined buzz,
now salted and still.
Was it for wanting of something else that called,
for you, this wet desert where all life began; a false gift of freedom?
For a life so short in the light,
once emerged from that dark dwelling place,
birthed to birth,
where black promised light,
and light promised death.