Timber glories in its own girth,
floating a mile off, bragging to the fog
of having no need of anchor,
how it answers no harbor light.
But its wood is drying out,
internal binding just a slow rigor mortis.
True freedom is not their drift;
it is the violent, grounding shudder
when the hull finally strikes the stones.
Let the bottom tear out.
Let the water we kept at bay rush in.
Only when wrecked upon gravel
can we finally stand up
and walk onto the dirt.
🪵
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Author:
pontefract (
Offline) - Published: July 26th, 2026 19:25
- Comment from author about the poem: Rated only because it may be misconstrued
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments1
A good write of a wreck.
Oh but could it be more that just a mere wreck!? Thank you for your onpoint read.
You are most welcome and yes of course it could me more indeed
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