Age Old


Am I supposed to quietly fade out of existence
like a blinking star
or a guttering candle?

Is there a ghost town
waiting for me over the next hill
with rows of gravestones
rising at awkward angles
out of the dead leaves and high grass?

I wait for the next wave
which does not arrive
somewhat like a beached whale
thrown up by the sea.

Night falls.
Cool breezes replace the heat
of the cruel sun.

A stranger walks alone on the beach.
Has he come to save me?
My whale flesh feels cold and dry to his touch.

He peers into my dull blue eye.
I wonder if he can see
the young whale swimming
once again
in the sea of pure consciousness.

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