Death on the Rocks
The water is still. Don’t let it fool you.
Men have died on those rocks,
dashed into ruins flailing in the fog,
prisoners of wind while the rest of us
sat safely at home.
About this poem
Spawned by a visitor to my table at the Second Choice Diner this morning. I was staring into space. Daydreaming. “I know what you are thinking.” I laughed. “I hope not.” I said. And there was no way. We rarely know what people are really thinking.
He left. I wrote this poem. Not the verse I had planned for the morning, but I always trust the muse before I trust myself.