Coming?

The upcoming collection, Small Comforts; published books are at inkwhisper.gumroad.com

A drifter spoke of straits where hope’s undone,
Where cliffs gape wide and seas choke out the sun.
No hero’s call, no oath to steer my way,
Just me, this nag, and fate’s unyielding say.

No crown I sought, no songs to carve my name.
The waves gnaw stone; they’ll eat my fleeting fame.
A cracked rock stands, its scrawl a bitter jest:
‘Rush on, ye proud, death’s tide will claim the best.’

No stars I begged, no gods to light my load.
I clawed my path through salt and shattered road.
Each step’s a scar, each mark a stubborn plea,
To face the strait’s cold heart and still be free.

This road don’t care. It grinds all deeds to dust.
No tale will linger, just spray and broken trust.
The dawn’s got laws; it won’t wait for your cry.
I’m gone by dusk; step up, or stay to die.

Coming?