Rage

It’s not so loud at the end of a river,
Still, I can’t see where the tides go once they’re over my head.
And under my feet, sometimes, I feel stones burying the sand of the river bed.
Or maybe it’s the ocean floor for I don’t know which side of the line I tumble in.

I waded out here for the poetry,
For the image of sun in my hair and a raging sea.
After the flash, I was thrown by the tide so —
Now, I can’t remember which bank is my sanctuary.

And sanctuary rhymes too easily with estuary.
As do temporary and arbitrary and mortuary:
Savagery, revolutionary, unnecessary.

So I roll and I tumble and I drown in the quiet waters of the river and the sea.
When I cry, my tears become the current and when I gasp, my lungs become the deep.
As I die, there’s no one here to see and when I sink, there will be nowhere else for me to be
But the estuary: my unnecessary, my arbitrary, my mortuary.

Stay gold,
Sabrina