The Flight of the Rocketman

A poem of mine:

Beached

And now it has to be over.
There will be no more coming back to me.

The ocean has receded into the depths
And will no longer be seeking refuge by the shore.
The moon is the beautiful betrayer
Our only light in the darkness
But the controller of the tide.
And in the many years of waiting,
I am no longer a beach, but a desert.

And now it has to be over.
There will be no more coming back to me.

In my waiting, without the nourishment of water,
The trees wilt, the gulls fly away.
I am just but many specks of sand
With only traces of your passing on my body.
I am adorned in shells and driftwood,
Signs of life that once was coming and going.
There will be no more coming and going.

And now it has to be over.
There will be no more coming back to me.

No more questions, no more waiting.
I am just here, a geographical landscape
Of something that has tasted life
And then drowned in its flavors.
Another deserted beach, another hollow form
In this planet we call wanting.

And now it is over.
You will not be coming back to me