The nail that once upheld the cross,
as much as it rusted,
my years too have rusted red.
Knowing it was rusting,
yet unable to pull it out,
I lived like a buoy, years of drifting.
Forgetting is a state of suspended death…
Around the hole left by the clumsily pulled nail,
between my rusted, bent waist,
the wind of endurance cuts to the bone.
As the nail slips out,
one person slips away,
and in that vacancy the ebb tide whirls
bearing a wooden cross, the river flows on.
