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.
Copyright © Jacob Welch | Year Posted 2015
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