Poetry

It was in you,
the beast.
Reading your private thoughts:
tribal instinct-
to gather tools.
Dwindling belief.

You are left high and dry
after the deluge receded.
A big fire
erupted in your house
to burn you alive.

Footfalls of disquieting roar
breaks the empty silence.
So thin was the salty air,
it spewed the fire.
Death of the moment.

You sit down on the rocks
outside your body
and start counting
the winks.