Peter

I wrote this poem a few months ago and there's just something about it that makes it one of my favorites. I still can't put my finger on it, but at the same time, I don't want to.

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Peter, Peter, pronounced deleter of wondrous sway, sits alone watching the blue sea foam. His hair tousles and twists with the rift of the fine salt spray.

"If I could find my way back home, where will I go?" he asks of the small crab at his feet.

The crab answers in it's stacatto voice "You should head for the hills, high above the starlight. There you'll find the permanence of age, ready to hold you tight."

Peter nods slowly, knowing this was his path all along, finally accepting, lets slip the last of the sand from its home in his hand.