I’d like to say I’m looking. It’d be nice to see the end of the line, the light in the end of the tunnel, but no, I find that I am simply existing and unsure of which direction to go if I even go at all. Any ideas? Please enjoy the poem, friends.
White Whale
A burning sea
and smoky sky.
Cleansed by fire
and ash and lye.
No boats,
no masters.
On the open ocean now,
only hope you’ll move faster.
It’s coming, you see.
That thing you sail away from.
It always seeks and always finds
those who feel but numb
in a world that often blurs the lines.
Not hunting,
but being hunted.
There is no hope
to fight back,
only ways to clean with soap.
The time and place is never, nowhere.
Poems by Sam 