Fighting the storm

Flowing up and down with the waves,

striking with might that could open caves.

I float alone, on my little small craft.

I face the deadly storm and laugh.

Thunder strikes a few paces away.

I step backwards and begin to pray.

If my tiny little thing is to survive,

I beg to the gods to keep me alive.

I cannot remember the day I sated sail.

and why I faced this horrible icy gale.

Yet I know in my heart I still need to fight.

And my heart leaps as land is now in sight.

I head to the large, hot land.

Seemingly dead and full of sand.

Leaving a hell of water for one with sun,

I climb to the island, half a journey done.

I set off in the blistering heat.

Steps crushing grains in perfect beat.

Stopping for a rare little drink,

I close my eyes and cease to think.

Years and years I walk in the sand.

It seems like there is no end.

How I survive, is a real mystery

I haven’t eaten in half a century.

Some time later, I still walk,

failing to see not even one rock.

Then one day I see a familiar head.

My own self, withered and dead.

 

Author's Note

This poem about a man who wondered the desert after landing there in a storm, and at the first few days he collapsed, but he was so fixed on his objective to simply get home, ignoring the real reason he came out here, his spirit continued walking without notice that he is dead, until he ends up in the same spot he died.

Reviews

[Ry]

This gave me chills.
Flawless