Purgatory

There is a certain pathos in an esplanade
at the bottom of a bluff that reaches the sky
to get to the top would only be to falter
so I decide to estivate and mortify.

Tranquil, still, no wind to fill
the holes I make in sand with toes
where love doesn't come to leave, for me
to question it as to where it goes.

The waves of time, a mundane dance
tides, the same old lows and highs
the moon and sun become like one
for all the times I close my eyes.

Then arrives winter, thickening my skin
the last jolt of reality, no longer afraid
of purgatory set between life and death
forever with the pathos in an esplanade.