S.O.S.

S.O.S.

The constant lapping,
ocean brine against the bulwark.
Rocking gently back and forth,
Sols light reflects.
Spots swim before the eyes.
Off, on the horizon
twin stream of salvation.
Distance, on a near featureless
expanse, difficult to judge.
My brain, dry as
a paper wasps nest,
buzzing with non-existence
Stung, mirages once too often.
I lay my head down,
parched, charred, red finger
on the trigger of the flare gun.
The twin columns of smoke pass,
There is that
buzzing,
again.

WDF