Monday, November 22, 2010
On the island, the shores sink under foot steps.
You can follow the foot steps of others for a while,
But they lead into the water and swim away.
On the island, close friends are a memory.
The ebb and flow of waves,
The wind that whispers- they mock.
On the island, most days are silent.
The bird whistles, and you may find writing in the sand,
But words are few.
On the island, sunny days are preferred,
But storms brew often and hover.
It rarely rains.
On the island, you'll find a girl, barefoot,
Whistling along the sea shore,
Living in a dream, wishing she had wings.