Who Will We Be

Ouch, ouch, ouch. Ow, owie, ow!
Until our exclamations lose their steam,
until our edges
know the bruising like an old friend.
Still the tumult takes us downstream.
When we catch a breath,
and think of the sea, we sigh—
for less than a second before
we’re tumbled onwards.
Topsy turvy’s the new norm,
ho hum, here we go
smashing our facets some more.
Will anyone recognize our smooth contours?
Will we? Will this sometime end,
and who who who
will we be, then?

©Susa Silvermarie 2022

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