You know you’re in the dumps when you start writing poems again. Felt like an old sketch matched the mood and theme.
Seashells by the Seashore
They say that if you put your ear up against it real close,
you can hear the ocean.
It’s like the wind is whistling through the spirals.
Back then, I don’t think I did it right, because I never heard it.
But just yesterday, I waited long enough
and I thought I could.
It’s a lot easier when the wind whistles through the other spirals,
the ones on the sides of your head.
It’s a lot easier when you’re at the beach,
with its wafting briny smells,
scrambing sea foam tentacles,
and speckled sand that follows you home.
The wind combs through your hair,
massaging the mind.
It rushes just shy of the collar,
sending salty shivers skittering across your skin.
I come to the ocean to drown in my senses,
to feel my thoughts drift
with the other things
Raw are the relics I let flee
and what I once saw, I no longer see.