You look to me With bloodshot eyes. You look to me Through opaque, plastic lenses For help, But I can’t help But feel helpless. I can’t help But try, fearing You are doomed. I fear my help Won’t make difference enough, No matter how hard I try, And so I pick up The broken pieces of you And make a garden In my own yard. The wind blows dust In waves like swelling seawater, And you, the shipwrecked earth, Slip silently into the depths.
Copyright © 2023 Wade Thiel
Katrina Archer composite from Depositphotos images
Wade Thiel is a writer who lives in Indianapolis, Indiana. His journalism has appeared in various publications including, Outdoor Life Magazine, Money, RV Magazine, Web Bike World, and others. His fiction and poetry have appeared in the Tipton Poetry Review, Etchings, Polk Street Review, The Good Men Project, and elsewhere. You can reach him at www.wadethiel.com.