He was, I know, a lonely soul;
We’d see him on this beach
At sunrise — fumbling, unsure —
And whistling to the gulls,
Just whistling to the gulls
A gray man of uncertain years
Who lived we-knew-not where;
At sunrise, mumbling and vague,
His eyes towards the ground,
His eyes towards the ground
In years of latency, and hard
The rains would come,
The rains would go,
He struggled vainly,
Reaching for
Or searching for
Or longing for —
He was my brother, as are all
Just stumbling on the beach:
The gulls cry out, no one replies,
The sun peeks over lonely skies,
Just missing her lost friend,
She’s missing her lost friend
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Published by Beleaguered Servant
Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.
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