The Choice Not Known
Will my rock in the ocean
float to my rescue,
am I yet to choose ?
Feathers sink like feathers
as only feathers can.
Thick, soft, gentle green grass
and sands, or sands,
charming, benevolent, clean as I recall,
and waters, or waters,
warm, cool, moving unseen,
and winds, or winds,
no longer would they sadden me.
Cold, as if a blanket, no longer torment
to my most naked extremity.
My rock at ocean's bottom
calmly bides its time,
as if somehow I could choose.
24th October 2018
Copyright © Lawrence Sharp | Year Posted 2018
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