About aging, loss and passing

a solitary sailor walks down a sandbank
the dry sand crumbles ‘neath his feet
these sands, water they no longer drink
paint cracking and peeling off of boats and a sink
the sun upon the hot sand beats
a solitary tree lies, where it fell, at the bottom of the bank

an old beach house decays ‘neath old dead oak trees
dry sea oats rustle in strong gusts of wind
a rotten shutter creaks in the cool breeze
old dry sea weed crackles and blows in the breeze
the sun falls towards the horizon
the wind bemoans its lost friend, the sea

the seaman on the tree trunk sits
a quiet fog upon the sand creeps
the burning sun on the horizon sets
the solitary sailor thinks of lost love, and regrets
the fog up to the log creeps
the fog inside itself, the seaman, lets

sun, to day’s eyes is visible no longer
the fog transforms into a wave
wave washes from the shore
with it disappears the solitary sailor
the man, no longer sea’s slave
stars appear and the sand turns silver