the ocean starts at the shoreline.

this is you, you seek solace in raw demise

you accost by adjective and verb

burying it under allegations

of beasts for slaughter, fish gasping at the shore

discarded and digging in the dirt for forty

some years for the source

detonation at the helm

wanting, lurking, mining for the simple hope 

to catch a fish

this is you, but hope emerged carrying freshly cut flowers,

sweets, poetry and your blame like ancient talismans

vibrant as butterflies on the cover

pleading to carry you out of the picture,

if only you would release the dead weight

but why fly, when you could sink or swim

this is still you, inside of twenty years or more

bowing to a shrine of solitude that grips and holds

you back from beauty so exquisite

it would kill you the moment you heard the song, a song

vibrating from its tender soul

but who are you, really?

are you hidden within the heart she sent

one of two birds, not beautiful enough to soften

hatred so sharp your hands were crimson

before you even attempted to touch her skin,

because artists love contrast, though

you never pressed your lips to the water stain

in a promise, before you commenced digging

this is you, but fear was not your fault

and hope is a solemn beast for

you are the fisherman, and the fish

casting, gutting, drown by air

and now it is all you have, crimson

abandoned at the shoreline

everything at once, then nothing at all

© 4.20.2017 heather brager

Hans Kanters.