Falling fog on windswept, rain-soaked dunes
Scatters time and time again the shifting hope
And static dread of the islander's heart.
With every angered pulse on Pamlico's door
Withered and decaying sands yield precious inches
Gathered from unknowable sources
Defying god and all his might and vigor
Stands tall and resolute cedar-planked forests
Of fleeting homes for passersby in transit
To life beyond, yet searching for recluse
Those straggled scattered few
bent to nature's winds
disquieted by howling ululations
And stretched by pounding undulation
then live in shifting tides of changing faces
Yes those straggled scattered few are lifted then
to life commensurate of all before them
Who haunt the hypnagogic mass of fleeting bathers;
Spirits ancestral who, by their divinity
Blow winds as fierce as on the rain-soaked dunes.
Those straggled scattered few
Then stranded though they be
Live life empyreal and noble through that force
That bends them for that force shall one day,
And for time immeasurable, be conflated with their own
Falling fog calls forth those scattered dead
That stranded, dreading, staid their time
And left upon this fragile strip, ever mortal
A life beyond, remembered well.
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