My vessel empty,
dark,
tangled up in blue.
My interior landscape,
desolate,
the sound of the wind echoes
through.
Days when I am the wreckage,
days when I am the storm.
Standing in mid-life,
the memory of the chaotic past
floats in and out of my thoughts,
like a colorful buoy
faded by the sun;
the color drained as
the elements seized
without mercy.
The scars have faded
but resurface
like a letter for additional postage.
Truth gnaws like a dog on a bone,
I choose to swim against the tides.
The erosion on my shore
only felt by me.
The mind battles the clutter,
while the illusions are mourned.
Tangled up in blue,
a light in the distance,
is the beacon,
to the answers,
to the possibility
of tomorrow.