In the Black

He visits the beachfront every night

And shouts her name at the ireful sea. He stands at the rock-strewn coastline,

His tall frame stooped and shaking

As the frigid tides break before him.

 

He laments the woman who haunts him—

The Archer, a living ghost.

 

His heartache is a fury that its vessel cannot hold;

Passion erupts from deep chambers, guttural—

Clashing with the salty, bitter wind. With every heave of his broad chest,

The waves too, heave.

 

The waves, they swell and snarl,

Violent in their boldness.

 

Each night he stands at the edge of his country,

At the edge of his sanity, and curses her name until the sea threatens to rise up

And consume him. He advances upon the charge,

But all the white horses fall back and fade,

 

And he casts his dull, unblinking eyes to the Heavens—

The Heavens, which he denies exist.

 

Hanging in the black, his moon glares brightly upon him.

“I hate you,” says the moon with her voice.

“And I, you,” answers the man,

As she retreats behind the passing shrouds of grey.

Published by Kindra M. Austin

Author of fiction, poetry, and very sweary social commentary. Editor, and co-founder of Indie Blu(e) Publishing. Co-founder of Blood Into Ink, and Heretics, Lovers, and Madmen.

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