Driftwood by Stewart Stafford
We see ourselves as great champions,
In chariots parading before the masses,
And not the driftwood guided by tides,
That in sober reality, we mortals are.
The fanfare that announces us,
Is a susurrating wave coaxing us on,
No prize or praise awaits this jetsam,
But the relief of joining shipwrecks ashore.
This veritable ocean parts us from fantasy,
Shining surfaces confront with true reflection,
As we go willingly blind back to reverie,
And cold shoulder the barbed spines of life.
© Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.
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