The Act of Clinging to a Pier

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 08, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 08, 2018



I am observing fishermen on the pier; frequently, curiously, generationally. Artists of release and they never let go. Speak it to the universe (to the sea) until it’s justified, That I am no predator, merely outnumbered, a lone survivor. In this setting they are the Gods, fate in their hooks, and I relate It is an elevated state, they walk atop the waves, they are out within the sea, they decide their bait.

Release is reluctant, for me, these days. Fishing is no longer about game, nor survival. Releasing is work, now a chore. ‘Letting go’ be not what it speaks- that implicated act of my own. Tell the waves, I am companion; I am not here to fight your tide. When the drift offers life, I just might give it back. Haven’t earned this flesh, this skeleton, this meal Undeserving of this death In ignorance, I curse Poseidon for my standards of expectation And I still come back everyday dripping with anticipation; I wait for atheism to justify itself. Mocking Moses, while desiring clout, I claim his anomaly from the red sea. And, this is all just a metaphor, see The red sea? That is my soul- split down the middle; a miracle that either side remained tidal. And the fishermen pluck freely, as this sea is abundant Seeing themself as creator, after all.

But injustice reigns, the pier is a cheat. Allows all to walk on water, The first marvel then silenced by years. So, why does time exist? To merely destroy? This pier eclipses me, while I observe the men who fish, I think about my red sea and the footprints on the water, And prove to myself capability of release in dreaming; I release my concept of time, my presence, Forget of the pier as impermanent against the tide, Which is not split, which is not tamed. And still, I wrap my roots around the pillars, My impatient demand, my stubborn wait, these foul hands Naively confuse my flesh as desired, and offer myself up as bait.

This grasp I do intend to release Circle repetitively, until predeceased. On this dock, finding capability of release. The gulls carry my years on their backs. Fly away my personhood, my memory, this suffering, my hunger. Without a drop on my scalp, I have become holy. Creator of my abundance, Poseidon welcomes me home; Admitted as ‘Trident’, I resurrect with sharp edges, defined frame.

In this state, as a tool As this sea God’s pawn, I am never to be mistaken as bait. In this state, my existence irrefutable. No, I am not a God, or Moses, the red sea, nor the plank which parts it. Forgiven and without expectation, I was given a reason to exist. You see, in this state, I’ve got no obligation to dismiss, Nothing from the past to reminisce, Nothing timely I might miss, this must simply be heaven; this might just be bliss.

© Copyright 2019 Sadie Ellen McQueary. All rights reserved.

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