Adieu my dear Omoshalewa
I sit among the scattered shells, A shovel in my hand; But use my fingers, gently curled, For sifting through the sand. I'm looking for something I've lost, But don't expect to find. The sand is something tangible, But I'm sifting through my mind. It's cluttered now with memories And dreams that wouldn't die, Like seagrass sometimes hides sandspurs That make the tender cry. Like broken glass or other trash, Are bitterness and fear. But buried deep within it all Are treasures I hold dear. So, deeper still, I plunge my hand And probe the tenderregions Of an angry, broken heart That knows so many seasons. Somewhere in there are treasures I still hope to find. Buried in this broken heart or in this troubled mind. ...