wash the bones [original poetry // photography]

the water lays just below the limp, curling moss; I
cannot see it for the drops and yet, with each step
it spurts between my toes— the cold is shocking.
why I peeled off my shoes, left them somewhere–
where— I cannot even fathom, because it was not
to feel. there is no feeling left. not in my toes or in
my heart here; I am struck dumb by the way each
time I press my weight and my soul into the earth
it responds back with bitter, chill waves. bruising
skin into submission, I wonder if they will expose
my bones– or if they wash the bones of the world.
 
as I approach the precipice, I create my own crests
which mirror the thundering swells rising, fiercely
crashing out beyond the cliff edge, I pause, my foot
raised— quivering and dripping above the torn and
rent remains. what were you? a soaring, night-dark
predator... a small onyx figure placed, steadfast, to
watch the storm wrack the beaches with pounding
fists? reduced, diminutive, asunder; there is naught
left to mark your presence here as living. no blood,
no flesh, the barest hint of sinew. or were you ever?
 
the wind ruffles the last lines of your existence and
I feel it begin to tug at mine. if I were to stand here
long enough, in the widening lakes of my pressure
on this plain, I think I would be unraveled. strands
of auburn, tangled in the grass and forgotten, until
the next solitary wanderer looks down to see what
is left. quiet against the wind, considering bits and
pieces of colour marking where every being stops
and the grasses and the storm meet, until they too
fray and collapse here. a new layer in this mass of
lost, lapsed consciousness, we will watch the tide.