Waves so gentle
you can barely hear them.
The wind, a whisper.
Half a dozen ducks swim silently
past blue water and indigo skies,
a beautiful exorcism,
your demons quiet,
their twisted truths somehow purged,
allowing you to pretend,
at least for this one moment,
that they have died,
never to return,
If you think,
you know the truth,
that their gnarly teeth and twisted tongues
a mix of chemicals and trauma,
that rises and falls with the moon,
But now, in this moment, they are subdued,
and you are as you were meant to be,
lost in the moment,
to feel in safety.
About this poem
Peace comes hard. Writing about it, for me, is more difficult that writing about struggles.
Strange huh? And a little sad, I think.