The Man on the Shore

When the tide draws breath on a misty morning,
he sits on the shore and draws breath also,
hair pulled into the sky by soft wind groaning
through aching trees that defiantly grow,
hunched into the shifting sand, bare of leaves,
back bent like his is, the man in the shade,
his bones creaking as he sits and he grieves,
weeps for the daughter whose death he repaid,
screams for the son whose bones crumble like shells,
chokes on the fog that seeps from the sea,
hears distant murmurs as the water swells,
shouts his prayers at the horizon, a plea,
that is swallowed by a returning wave,
who crashes upon him and does not save.

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