Holed beneath the waterline
Again, the tide is rushing in.
The end is staring back at me
In its funeral suit,
Wearing that black cap. Judging me
Guilty of everything.
Too many sins
For all the waters in the world
To be enough
To ever wash me clean again.
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Originally Published 23 January 2016
Made of sticks and stones 