Archive ⋙ Poetry
the last wave by
Show me yes,
Show me no,
Show me "I don't know".
Take this needle from my hands;
show me which way to go.
I sit here beneath my window
as hanging from the shades jellyfish play,
ghosts of cookie payloads long since devoured,
crumbs all washed away.
These next few weeks, I'll sway and scream
and wish for the Below,
but my suffering can't end just yet, apparently-
still eleven more days to go.
My lamentations to someone else:
why would you treat your own blood this way?
I can feel the dirt piling on my skin,
so hastily discarded to the grave.
My jailkeeper comes and goes as they please.
Not even my best behavior to them can appease.
So I sit here in silence, alone in my room,
heart pounding with knowledge of my impending doom.
You say this was for my own good, but at end of day:
this whole ordeal was never really about me anyway.
Some day I'll escape, perhaps to New Hampshire,
home of those who place liberty higher;
I'll soar with the wind, and I'll reap all I sow,
and finally have a place I can call all my own.
But for now I'm a seedling impounded in the shade.
Not yet I can properly call myself self-made.
The air is smoky, and I choke and I spasm
as I stare down the sheer cliff of Servitude's chasm.
My love, I beseech you on what might be my last song,
tell them the only person who ever truly owned my body
was me all along.