What Can I Tell You
What can I tell you,
old friend,
having carried myself here
to be in your company,
to feel your quiet, the still
paused on your waters
as if you were listening out
for me. You must be
tired of waiting for a word,
a sound, something
to tell you I'm here.
As I did yesterday
and the days before,
I have come to this place,
closed, locked shut
in this terrible silence
that has escaped from
the hellish chambers of my sleep
and taken up home
in the wakened me.
I wander the hours
looking for what I've lost,
those things now repossessed
and sunk beneath
a thick impenetrable dark,
lying fathoms deep,
unreachable.
So again I have come
to be bathed in your waters
and enter the sacred spaces
gathered here.
Feel my dumb fingers desperately
holding onto your lapping reach.
Heal me, take my silence
and disperse it
on the broad back of your tides,
wash my darkness out to sea.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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