Dead embers are cold ashes.
No desire remains to reignite them with fresh fuel.
Much less blowing a new spark to life.
Dead. Gone.
Empty soul winter.
Cold, grey, lifeless.
Days unending, trailing along endlessly.
Cold, grey, lifeless.
Fresh contact that forces sifting of those cold ashes.
Bitter, acrid. Sour.
Repeated. Over time, less so.
Finally, not at all.
Even face to face, nothing.
Polite good wishes. Calm.
Details finalized, calm.
And in that unending, glassy sea of calm, flat water….
at last, a ruffle.
There IS life under there, out there, away from dead land.
Sleek, gleaming intelligence breaks the surface,
draws the eye, the attention.
There IS life out there.
Leaving the shore, wading in the sun-warmed water,
deeper, deeper, feeling the foundation fade beneath my feet.
Think of all the dangers lurking;
spines, stings, teeth, tentacles….lurking.
I will seek the swimmer.
I will focus on the swimmer.
I will join the swimmer.
Dead land holds me no longer
captive.
