Dead Shells

not at all times that we stay on the deep
portion of the river we get tired sometimes
our limbs soft and weary we long for a little rest
a place where there is only foam and bubbles
and the sand and pebbles touching our pelvic bones.

there. On the shallow waters we rest our weary souls.
No thoughts. Just descriptions.

No descriptions. Just silence.
No silence. Just a driftwood.

No feelings at all. Numb and dumb.
Dry leaf buried on the sound. Dead shells.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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