The beach is more a desert now,
the sea has run away somehow;
to drown myself the waters lack
in empathy, they won’t allow.
If I wait long, the sea comes back,
(if not belated by some wreck),
whom can I trust to help me go?
My footsteps are a desperate track.
The table of the tides I know
by heart but sea deceits me so,
there’s only sand and shells to see.
I shall not feel defeated though.
Six hours I shall wait and be
the patient suicidal me
and then the water does the deed
and I am swept off both my feet.
This poem is not about me personally, as I have no intentions to do myself in, but when I saw the beach looking deserted, I could very well imagine how it would feel. The rhythm was inspired by the poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost.