An address to pebbles that protest
I am the maker of your fear, says the silver ocean.
like the dessert sun to a scotched frog,
I strike the sand and bury you deep with each beat,
Too when the night is calm, and moon puts me to slumber
I lay heavy on your soul that pleads to turn dust and fly,
If for a minute.
I hear your cracks and whimper when my cold, cold, skin
Envelopes your breath with salt of Sodom
Only to leave, and return, and leave.
I willfully craft a moonless night of my eyes to your anguish,
Send your pleas north, to a different god perchance,
I have not vowed myself to benevolence.
A trillion stones surrender their selves for sake of sand,
that which is my bed to sleep, my dog to beat and to break,
Why then thinks a single pebble that a lion ought to save a deer.
I shan’t take the tedium of stillness, and not dance ashore
If that be your woe, so be
Long before your cries, long after, yours is to serve my whim.
Copyright © Bantu West | Year Posted 2023
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