Seventh
Come seventh misty morning, the dawn betrayed me, and found me lonely. We ran ashore in the murky hours of burning pitch. Black figures attempts to lift the skiff off of the meadow, but time and time again, loose their grip. The wind has risen, and there is fire on the breeze, thick, sickly; sweet and feverish. The sun has found companionship, in its restless, deathless struggle through the mist. My shell is cracked and my lips sewn shut, and the skiff rock me to sleep once again.
