An Aimless Poem

It’s never a good sign when 
we start our morning by 
gazing westward, our backs 
to the east, wondering where 
our own shadows originate— 
never looking back, answerable to 
no one. Perhaps it was a bit of a 
grumble we overheard? The words 
tumbling in the surf, overflowing the 
sand beach.

And where does that leave us? Falling 
into exhaustion, buffeted by the winds, 
enough to power the sails of a thousand 
sleepless nights. Dismantling the tiny grass 
hut we’d built, dizzying ourselves with flattery:

“You look lovely, tonight.” 
“Why, thank you.” Love 
is the penance for the sin of 
wanting to be loved.

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