The Lonely Shore

             This ship has sailed
                Words have failed
            
                Lonely shore to aft

           Moonlight on the empty                                   sand
   Flames for a moment had been                          fanned

That beautiful beach bereft of                               desire
  The ship now at sea is but a                           funeral pyre 

    Lines drawn in the grains a                        continuous scar
Above the water line now naught                      but char                                                     
   the gentle lap of the waves the                      only sound
   the wreck claimed by tides,
                      n'er found
 
No longer visible the shell strewn                         strand 
The submersion of the crows nest                         at hand
  
   Was that spit of land just
                   a sham?
    Matters not when all that is
               left is flotsam 

   A Rogues poem,  by Joseph Friend