Flotsam

Frothy, foamy, tainted waters,
Bitter taste of wreckage and fuels,
All of what could have been,
All of the wishes for what should have been,
Floating in tiny pieces, jagged and far flung.

Rhythmic rise and fall of oceanic waves,
Carry the remains of what once was away,
Washing and saturating, heaving and sucking,
Larger pieces just below the surface,
They cannot rise and will not yet sink, trapped in watery purgatory.

Bobbing, floating, spreading,
Beneath sun and sky, stars and moon,
Each piece shall see a different destination,
Most will see a different place of ocean sand,
Left to sway until rotted away on the water’s floor.

Cumbersome carcass of manmade machine,
Laid without ceremony down in puffs of silt,
The only shroud the wreckage shall receive,
Now plunder for ocean dwellers,
Homes and play yards, hiding places and hunter’s blinds.

I float amongst the flotsam,
The remainder, the splintered, the left behind,
No place secured in the wreckage below,
No place among the debris splayed above,
I too shall float away, perhaps to later sink, perhaps to a new destination.