Boats Harboured in the Port of the Soul


On the sand I've come to lie,
Always saving breathes from time,
In urns I've made of clay and sweat,
They surround my peaceful resting place.

One lone jar contains my soul,
Though it's lost in these monuments,
For to search among those living familiarities
Would mean a lifetime of moment's gone;

So instead I slave, my castle built,
In a jar myself, I wait,
The ashes of a solemn youth,
And fold the virtues of an ancient girl
Who's statue rests along the shore,
Her hands outstretched, brave, though blue,
And the face a work of art so grave.

She mocked my kingdom and my rule
Till she crumbled, and I understood
The fool I'd played, clay crashed in rage,
I washed in regret, so much more than I'd ever felt,
For my soul was bare and cold
And unaccustomed to the truth.

I wept and cursed as the waters rushed,
I left the walls and dreams I'd tilled,
My clumsy hands had worn with time,
Though lines of age had never appeared,
And that girl, she shed one tear, I saw,
For then I knew what I had done.

I too cried, and held her broken jaw,
Pieced the fragments left, I made a bowl,
And in it lives her heart and soul,
Contained but free, so unlike me,
And now I carry her, my penance,
And my only saving grace.

I succumb this time, accept my age,
I will not loathe, and neither shall I hate,
For the life I lose is life I slowly gain.


The End

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