The geography around me
is a wall, a door, a window.
An illogical life sown into logical seams.
Easily ripped apart.
A story of sorts.
Absolutes of humanity,
improbabilities of history,
mutations of fate,
until I have what I have,
I am what I am,
on the precipice of a bluff.
Hugging my knees.
I rock to the rhythm of the sea,
life rolled in a ball,
lonely, forlorn, empty,
and waiting.
Is it a question to be answered?
A hunger to be fed?
A metamorphosis to be completed?
A friend who has not arrived?
Or does existence evaporate,
a cloud that watches the earth,
a poem that ends with a period.
A jar, that is nothing but a jar,
holding earth inside
until it’s broken.
Just geography.