Coarse

Emma Moore

One believes the past
Is the past.
Forgotten
A bottle in the sand.
But mine comes back with the waves
And washes over my skin
Roughly it engraves
Digging into my limbs.

The wind
Whispers a tune,
Sings a song on
Days that are cool

It gets especially cruel,
When it reaches down my foot

The skies clear,
Mundanely
The tune ends
And then,

There
It begins all over again.

notes from the poet

Felt like the rhythm could be better. I remember writing this because of the guilt I carry from who I was in the past.