I stood at the shoreline
and watched you dip over the horizon.
And then stayed like a mother keeping bedside vigil.
Starched with fear, upholstered upright.
Becoming less like a person,
and more like a lighthouse.
A beacon to guide you home
or silently watch you drown.
The prisoner with outstretched fingers,
a pale light fading in dark waters.
Removed from the trauma finally occurring,
Grief turns everything to stone and salt.
Last updated February 26, 2015