RUNNER UP

Have you ever whispered into the sea
of empty white noise and its cushioned cries?
Wishing that the pale grey echo would be
in close earshot of even a stray fly?
Whilst your open heart and its plaintive cry
traverses sunken ravines, caves afar,
your call is unheard, witnessed just by stars.

At 52-hertz haunts heartache through you,
52 long weeks of mourning a year,
hermit of the seas, from one home to few –
the distance you sweep, remaining unclear.
Your yelps create ripples of swathing fear,
indistinct lacuna trapped in your wail,
a cold, hollow torment with no avail.

So man, being man, sends down sonar waves,
into the inky Pacific abyss,
trying hard to save nature from the grave,
not an accessory we reminisce.
The once unheard, now will not be dismissed,
hoping efforts retrieve the forlorn soul,
alone to venture the seas and patrol.

As and when the same feeble sonar waves,
and lightyears consume stewardship and love,
man, glances above, away from the cave,
and witnesses the sprawling rifts above.
a land of lit screens and no touch thereof,
curled thumbs on keyboards, in pixels immersed.
And he knows not which rift he must close first.

(Told in Rime Royale)