I call upon
the western seas,
whose sea foam fingers
are ‘ever reaching,
to please meet me
at the end,
so that my eyes
may see the endless
tide, rising up,
to touch my feet.
My wheel has turned,
prayers writ,
prayers burned,
a noble year,
given to each.
For all my good works,
fate, so fleeting, is chance,
and I can not choose,
but, the sea’s blessing,
is only hers to teach.
©️ Obol, 2020.
I keep thinking “WEST!” and I came back around to the same place I’ve always been.
