Will I be remembered for my sin,

Or for the love I gave to kin?

Will I be seen in tints of rose,

Or by family I left with endless woes?

Will my memories be passed like holy script,

To the children of children I cannot predict?

Will my mistakes be lost to white lies,

Or shall they be judged by resentful eyes?

Will my failures be my greatest legacy,

Or shall my successes commit ultimate heresy?

Will choices made by bygone ghosts,

Haunt those I loved the most?

Will a flame for my soul be lit, 

Or will I be confined to the darkest pit?

Will I be abandoned in earthen cold,

Or will St. Peter show me the Gates of Gold?

Will my sins that I have born,

Stop to remember and to mourn…

Linial confluence of sin and mistake

Takes on a form, a leviathan, a snake. 

What was once an unforgivable thing. 

Now becomes a wedding ring. 

In times gone by I’d told the truth,

But that I knew had no other proof. 

For what I did, could never be known.
And if one other knew, it’d never be shown.

Twas not uncommon once or twice
To conceal one's venereal vice.

And we did things back then you see,
That we did for your lives to be.

We loved and cherished what we had
Gave it all to make them a Dad.
We put aside our own lust…
And in turn we entered into trust.

Sin diverges and in its wake,
Leaves only our lasting mistake.
And was it truly a mistake or choice?
One for which you caused our rejoice.

Fragile driftwood

A newspaper boat

Pages torn from its tattered hull –

a story ending.

This forlorn murky night

Fierce waves threw rag dolls against razor rocks

above the wash, blood rush waves.

A hideous crack.

Shatter.

The painful batter.

Flesh and bone crashed.

Against granite shapeless graves.

Twisted sunshine, seeped solitary rays

between bone black clouds.

The ruthless hand of God

Struck

The water of life with ferocious flame.

Frightening sounds flicker.

Screams let souls slither towards the surface.

Through the crushed cage.

That failed to protect life.

Sanguine seas, lick the land with their white froth.

They deposit helpless

- hands, feet, legs -

upon cold sediment.

Whimpers

mistaken for wind caught in rocks.

Gentle breeze inspects each body

with its callous pride.

The sky bleeds a last tear

for each life lost.

The tide strokes down each spine

with twisted fingers,

Seaweed composes a noose

around delicate necks.

Wives whisper quiet words to their husbands,

Sitting.

Watching.

Their bodies, one by one,

collect upon the shore.

The shore where they played games.

Sang round camp fires.

Sad souls mourn their loss.

Children cry.

Death moves soundlessly

among their kith and kin,

guiding the souls away from already rotting flesh.

The stink.

Indistinguishable for sulphurous seaweed.

A huddle of life stands by the sand.

Quietly.

sombre.

Dark brown sacks -

hang by their side.

Youth agape with awe,

disgust, revulsion, intrigue.

We feel not their hands

stroke the wet hair from our corpses.

Handkerchiefs cover their sullen faces.

Against the dying sun the bowsprit is the spear of destiny.

We step out onto the water,

holding each others hands,

We walk across the ocean

towards the setting sun.

we feel its warmth, a sad smile.

looking back on our bodies

our bereaved brethren.

The sea waves a final farewell,

from its calm blue veneer.

No sound utters.

A pure, white world engulfs us.

Death

stands on the raised bow.

A gleam in his dark empty skull?

Did he feel for the tiny child.

Left behind.

Her soul sits on the crushed mast.

He finds her small hand holds his hard bone.

She shuts her eyes for she wishes not

to see her father cry.

Death takes up his scythe, taps the bow,

three times, no more.

In his arms the little child.

Asleep already.

She grasps his skeletal body.

Darkness covers the stricken ship

pulls it down to dark peaceful sleep.