my personal story of stories(the reflection of the tide)

This is a rough draft, im still very much working on this. Also I'm still working on the ending.

what were your last words?

do you remember?

did you feel loved?

were you alone?

to recreate you

with water drawn from,

the earth mother's womb,

would be impossible.

to recreate a love so pure

still ill attempt, in vain.

you're not gone.

that, i'm completely sure.

a glimpse of those eyes,

haunt water refractions

and given time, i'll stop rejecting

those solemn reflections.

how long have I worn this thin?
the reflection, once my idol
a version of me,
I once tried to become.

and with my hands,

i'll scoop the water of fate

and i'll offer it,

into my freshly dug grave.

there will be digging, and digging

and digging.

as my security coffin

sings, melancholic tidings

the wet mud of fate, encrusting my hands,

caking my eyes.

I realized I was buried too soon.
Alive, blind, beneath a name that wasn't mine.

scraping and clawing

upwards, instinctually.

the bells chanting

in soft elegy

it wasn't always this way

my epitaph's a story,

written above my grave

about a boy and the tide

a boy who was once lost,

longing for the sea.

and waves that would whisper

such despondent sorrows

there was also a hermit

old, raggedy, and wise

those words he spoke

once gave that boy life

"you seem lost here"
asked the hermit, once a stranger.
"i stare towards my future."
is all the boy could murmur.

"you're staring at the end of the world,
there is nothing beyond that edge"
it seemed the hermit knew.
his legs sodden, punctured his breath.

the boy wished,

with all that he could.

to be brave, to step into the sea

no one was there though.

to catch if he sinks.

the hermit, with a cough and a breath.

with a voice like the waves, and their quiet rumble.

softly, with words you could read

let out his truth, like a monumental speech.

"oh child, born of the sea.
a tide of loss, love, the want and need.
overwhelmed one, heart of gold.
the songs of hope who'll never be told.

they sing of you,
the rivers and creeks.
from the depths of my ankles,
from where they speak.

beyond the storms, their rapids divine.
beyond the stars,
beyond the end.
each story destined to relive time.

sweet forgotten one, your sorrow on show.
your home speaks fondly of you,
"oh how you've loved, how you've grown."

they sing, each arroyo weeps."

but like the morning fog,

a wisp who willed himself away.

the boy was once again alone

this time, slightly less afraid.

the boy dived in,

to figure out it's meaning

knowing that he too

would live the hermit's speech

a whirlpool grabbed him

sucked in like the tide,

but not fearing.

the boy opened his eyes.

it took him, somewhere

that only he would know

to a creek he would play in.

so many years ago.

and there he was,

the boy's reflection in sight.

filled with hope and wanderlust,

building a dam on the otherside.

slowing the water, those memories

that once flowed.

the boy was a god,

though only stacking stones.

the water would still seep.

that the reflection would know.

though it didnt seem to matter.

he was there to let it go.

that dam, the reflection built

with such loving hands.

was built to show,

the boy needed to let it go.

and their eyes locked.

the boy's and the reflections own.

behind those eyes were words,

the reflection always knew.

and with those eyes,

the reflection asked,

"did we ever dream?"

"what is it that we've seen?"

the boy was shocked,

as if he had forgot.

that he left the reflection,

in that whirlpool so long ago.

to hide him from,

the world and it's scenes

to protect him, so he didnt have to see

to protect whatever once was.

but the reflections eyes,

were filled with disgust.

he could not bear to see

because the boy wasn't enough

an apology, between cries
softly spoken to the reflection
alive in passing
more vivid than himself.

the reflection was full of life.

and the boy realized,

that his end was nigh.

the reflection came through,

that whirlpool of lies.

the boy in front of himself

so close, eye to eye.

trying to bring himself to

love himself that night.

and the reflection consumed.

my funeral procession

was solemn, but drowning in silence.

only walking,

towards where it began.

following for what seemed

miles; years.

and with nimble hands,
the reflection would take fallen tears.

he built a collection,
of all the sorts and goodbyes.
to keep them,
in their comfort he'd reside.

forever, he spent walking.
the oxbows, left in the wake,
of his own funeral procession.

walking alone, only he was aware of his fate.

until he reached, an umarked grave.

he started stacking those stones and tears,

building a tombstone worthy of his name.

etching his story, weathering in words

just like the rain.

he'll bury himself there,

with the mud he made from fate.

below questions, the ones that he made.

his last words, the ones made of love.

do you remember?

did you feel loved?

were you alone?

he could answer with one short breath.

once he pulled through the earth,

and gasping for air.

he'll look at his name,

and it will all seem fair.

he'll be reborn, and he'll see his face

in the creek, an old man, a hermit

will be reflected, that day

and he'll understand.

because he did remember,

and he did feel loved.

though he was alone,

alone was just enough.

he'll journey through the mist,

and his life will begin.

writing poems, telling stories,

singing songs to those who need to live.

and for once,

he will feel peace.

Author's Note

"the whole story" reimagined