There is a shack
on edge of sea
perched on the sand.
Inside, is me.
I move across
The kitchen floor
In silence, dark;
I slip the door.
No shoes, no sound,
(save for the sea).
Just sandy stairs
trod carefully.
Downward, forward,
I fix eyes on
that which calls me
past horizon.
Have you seen it?
That sacred wall
of night black fog
roll onto all?
Felt its dampness?
Seen it smother
horizon lines?
Called it Mother?
That which weathers;
That which grinds;
That one that lives
Long after time.
I go to Her,
step into sea.
No longer to
remain as me.
--Julian E., Adult