Jacob Welch Poet Prose Poetry

Croatoan

Whispers in my ear;

The dead wish to live again.

A soft strumming
of worn out strings;

The dead hope to rise.

From coffin nails
to slow exhales,
the living wane
and slowly fail.

I tie my knots,
I lift my sails;

The dead setting off again.

From Roanoke
to Jamestown’s walls,
the sea consumes another soul;

And I’m settling down
on this foreign shore
without a line
to cast back home;

The living dream
of growing old;

The dead remain, 
trapped
in rotting bones.

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