The Water's Edge

My heart yearns for its history to be retold

the past imprinted upon our souls,

Must we saw through the noose

tethered to the bottom of the sea?

Stories rewriting themselves.

I walk along, disoriented.

This is my past

my bloody wounds

guiding me down

illusory alleyways.

I don't know which way is Home.

I’ve been searching all the while

walking backwards.

Exhausted,

I rest at the water’s edge.

A heron flies overhead

elegant movement,

seamless fluidity.

I love her.

Another appears,

coupled in flight.

Could my body move in such a way?

Unencumbered

by the stories that dance upon my skin

in the dark

voices whispering

their ill advice.

I am tired of running.

Trembling with the knowing

I was destined for something

I can taste

yet cannot grasp.

Transmute this misery into bliss.

Aren’t we all

paying our debts to the devil?

Slice the rope

that cuts into our flesh.

If not now,

I know with certainty

I will go under

Clinging

to my last breath.

It could have unfolded

like fairytales

I lived inside

as a child

I lay here now,

entangled in seagrass,

Light flickers

upon the water's surface.

Dissolving back into the fold,

inevitable decay.

Could I have chosen a path

that led to the Promised Land?

Its bitterness on my tongue.

At the water’s edge.

I am at peace now.

This is where I belong.

By Brooke Laura