While waiting for the check-in time for a hotel, I sat in a rock pub with a pint and wrote some poems.
The pub at the end of the sea
drunk in the stall, the pause,
a vacancy of purpose.
Without ambition do we die?
He thinks he withers like a tree;
he just pauses, thinks, dreams a while.
Leaves refresh, repurpose in rain,
treasure will unearth secrets long hidden,
any move to betray beneath sound.
while she walks jagged to the surf line,
the edge, a crossroads in water,
looking for the bridge she once built,
the one the enemy sought to destroy
through his lack of understanding.
Walk backwards into the sea.
Light beckons and grows,
blasts ignorance to smithereens.
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