Island

My heart has become an island
where only God would tread
a circle of shoreline
spotted with wreckage

there are no survivors

messages in bottles
tell me that I am being erased
from hearts I once lived in
one word at a time

no lips brush my own
no arms envelop
no fingers entwine

in mad solitude I pace
the length and breadth
of my exile
wishing to find some escape

but failing

each storm brings new debris
from ships long since
lost at sea

hope, clinging to a makeshift raft
leaves me on the shore
without the means to make fire

my heart would be empty
save for the ache of loneliness
and regret

too long waiting for requite

Don McGonigal Aug 2006