Cetea

I plodded, trudged, dragged through
The grass that bent to pray its sorrows away
And looked to the branches that swayed
In the searing heat of the breeze.

I don’t feel anything
When I hear the whisper of leaves.
Where does the crow go
When the carrion grieves?

He flies to the ocean—
To the raging, tempestuous sea,
Where the Cetea,
Let loose from Poseidon’s reign,
Snake through the veins in me.