Death by Water
by Abner Dormiendo
The thing about water is that it heals
always, and every time we hold our bodies
against its eternal mouth, it is asking us
to do the same. The boat with its passengers
sleeping with the fishes means that we are all part
of this thread we cannot fit through our mind-eye,
that to comprehend means to mend, that if memory
is a hole, forgiveness is a patch we use
to stitch our life together only to watch it
fall apart, like how the sky accepts the water,
pieces a cloud together, until it breaks
from its own weight into this rain that is only
as good as rain during the falling, but not the settling.
By that time it hits ground, we don’t call it rain anymore.
Finally gained some time to write, but as usual, nothing satisfactory ever comes out as of yet. That’s what revisions are for, I guess.