Atoll on the Heart

by William Schroeder

I don't go there often,

To this lonely rock of my island self,

And walk the weathered shores of me.

I don't wait there often,

On the edge of breaking revelations

In an angry pool of epiphany.

I don't stand there often,

Upon the jagged, prideful stones

That carve reminders in my feet.

For when I linger often,

Within the desolate desolation

Of my aching inner sea,

I get pulled under often,

When wading through the bitter tides,

That tug at the heart that's sinking me.

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