White Shore

Unhappiness misreported,
Like splinters of wood
On fringes of seething foam,
Finding their home
On the cooling sand –
Lost, forgotten,
Disregarded and
Thrown overboard.

We'll expand and contract
Between the sighs of the sun –
Dry out and become soaked
With the fickle black tide.

Maybe one day
A scavenger will come along,
Picking their way, barefoot
Along the sand;
And maybe they will pick up
These pieces of drifted driftwood
From this white shore,
And put them to good use.

On some days, I don't hold out much hope,
Yet on others, hope holds me out.

We'll fashion our driftwood selves
Into pencils,
And report our unhappiness
(and perhaps our happiness)
Accurately, appropriately.
One day.