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The Turning Tide

And then again, there is my sadness
it lies like regret, a tinge on tongue
so when I swallow, I feel the weighted stone
and it doesn't atone for betrayal.

There are days such as these, where
I wrap the grey scarf around my neck
and when I cry, I find I am unable to stop ~
I wipe sadness on to the sleeves
that covered the records we once played

I am grooved into the memories, yet
when I close my eyes there are only sighs
on the spindle sticks of winter trees
that reach forever, heaven maybe?

My tongue is the tip, that slips
tentatively tasting each moisture
from a storm laden sea, that throws,
shows how capricious it can be.

I am the spume from long ago horses,
who valiantly swam, so many to die,
the rest who lay panting, deep slavers
of saliva, as eyes rolled they quivered,
their flanks shivering into a night air.

I am the white rock, far out at sea
the one you see and legends write about.
I am the unhappy ending in a book
that was written, missing beginnings ~
I am the tide that forgot to turn.

Poetry by Elle