His Refuge
Beset by bitter guilt, he treads the street.
From cheerless eyes spring teardrops he can’t quell.
His head is lowered should by chance he meet
a glance from one who knows his guise too well.
He can’t escape his ever-present shame.
It’s risen in him, like the moon this night,
and so he pumps his arms and runs. . . aflame
with pain. He loathes himself, and that’s his plight.
The masses fall behind him now. The beach
has summoned him, and in the sky a storm
of oscillating wings appears. . .the screech
of thousands clears his mind. Grey bodies swarm
around him. He is found! His spirit lulls.
His refuge is the city of the gulls.
December 27, 2015
For the Deep and Dark Poetry Contest of Broken Wings
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