Wake Up

• Michael Hall, Grade 11
• Poetry
• 2019

To feel the scold of a churning tide,
The frigid cold of a turning mind.
To see the moon turn,
yet sit so still,
In the hollow wake of a distant chill.

A pain of heart, that aches but cant,
as it remain still ignorant.
The sea promises a taste of a divine,
but it burns forever perpetual.

To hear the hiss from an eternal bliss,
in nothing sort of feverish.
Because though to see the bay, may not stop dismay.
Its better to float then sink.