Healing Stones
The healing stones rest.
Fondled and smoothed by
Fingers as gently as Hail Mary beads,
Of those seeking grace- Questing new life,
Stilled by hands uncertain of
Direction or destiny, begging to rise
Like the Phoenix from fiery ashes.
The colors of agates, crystals,
And rose quartz, erased and tossed
Into brackish waters, lashing at the
Seaside, salty on tongues which
Speak to mythical Gods, crouching and
Praying on knees with
Bowed heads, requesting miracles...
Sometimes answered- Sometimes not.
Uncertainty soaked in blood and stains of
Grassy patches drift outward,
Sealed in jars, wedged in ghost ship gallows,
To be tasted by sea nymphs, mermaids, and
Caught by fishermen, casting reels off wooden bridges.
When opened- A breath, a whisper, a sigh escapes
And drifts along corals, swallowed up then spit back.
The Queen of Hearts, the dreamers,
All with black diamond crowns,
Scribbling journal entries will await with nets on
Coasts of oceans and impatient streams.
Copyright © Dana Young | Year Posted 2016
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