creative writing


Each wave of blue ribbon,
Washes upon the sand,
Bringing driftwood;
Memories clouding my mind, and
Offering as much solace as red clay,
From rusted rocks in mud.
A fossil from the past, best forgotten.
I turned my back on the deep dark wood,
In search of the blazing sun.
Grassland was all I found,
Drenched in my tears.
Though I’m thankful for the sound,
Of breaking waves.
I’m grateful for the colour,
Of sun rises.
I hope I live to see another.

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In response to the Paint Chip Poetry Prompt Challenge #28 found here

Disorganised, yet appropriate.