Gills and Palms
I. Gills
The tide of hatred never ebbs;
The isle surrounded sinks and drowns;
While we, the natives, scale the trees
As Gills emerge upon our faces,
Gaping—like fresh, opened wounds.
II. Palms
The floor of faith shall never shift;
The sea above shall soon be calmed;
From islands covered, yet undrowned,
Long trees vault upward to the surface,
Cradling us on outstretched Palms.
Copyright © Garth von Buchholz | Year Posted 2016
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