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Rated: E · Poetry · Nature · #1010556
A tale of a fisherman's loss; he waits night and day for a son that won't return.
When nights preceded sunny days
a fisher sailed on the Irish calm;
his eyes fell closed as he found the ways
to fit the world in his calloused palm;
to brush the depths with his fingertips -
a world beneathe the gloomy haze;
was merely induced by his heart's true wish
to walk among the water glades.

His heart had fallen to the floor,
and anchored still, this very day,
when the sea threw threats in an angry roar
and snatched his joy into raging waves.
With arms outstretched to the world he'd lost,
tears spilling like rain from heaven's store,
but his eyes steady with the lighthouse beam,
the fisher crawled up the sandy shore.

Now in the house of piercing light
he watched with silence the storm subside
Now through the years he gave his life
to search by day the selfish tide
Now about the waves he often dreamt
of when the sea was a wondrous sight
Now beneathe the waves he eternally slept
and the moon reigned calmly o'er the deadly night.
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