It’s all over

But the dying he said,

Leaning over a broken rail

On what once was a boat,

Now a haphazardly patched

Wooden hull tied to the dock,

Bits of plywood, boards, plastic,

Tin and what have you in a shanti

Town collage of how in the hell

Does one live there,

You’ll probably survive the boat,

No, he looked straight through me,

When she goes I go she’s all I have left,

Isn’t that the same for many of us,

Are we not clinging to something

That in reality is of little value.

Stephen Nesbitt ©

From “Songs From A Seabird”

12:49 PM August 17, 2015

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