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Weathering the Storm



My head’s ready,” Bring up the anchor that won’t stop bleeding and pack light we’re traveling alone” I can hear it yelling. It’s so impatient. I lay the only few items I have left across my sole a hammer, three nails, and an antique trumpet that maybe I can trade for some company tonight--all systems go. Possibilities leak small droplets of reverie. One by one they fill the moat that surrounds my castle, built on sand, slowly etching destruction into its foundation. The winds of yesterday have left their mark across its once beautiful facade. The innocent voice of a seed planted in this very castle echoes throughout its walls, “When are you coming home daddy?” Blood flows thick like wet cement down my anchor's chain, mixing with slurry of faith that cures around my winch--reefing avidity. “Adjust the turnbuckle and tighten the guy wires we’re weathering the storm,” I yell to my head driving the remaining three nails through my feet. I then sit and invite my rusty trumpet for some enduring company.

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Submitted on May 02, 2011

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