Those Who Do Not
Early in the morning, the fog hides the horizon.
The waves are subdued, whispering,
as if in awe of the night’s storm, now passed,
and their survival.
The remains of a pier emerge as you walk.
Broken pylons, the bones of what once was,
just enough to remind you of what once was,
and what did not survive.
We forget that at times,
that while most endure the storm to see another day.
About this poem.
Be kind. There are a lot of broken people out here. Some find their way home. Some do not. You or I may be the difference, one way or the other.