Burns

The old man knelt down in front of the sea. He yelled, fists holding handfuls of sand as he shouted into the sleeping sounds of the waves, he threw his body at its mercy. His cries were met with wind. His palms, pale and throbbing, were lifted to the skies as he stood against God, against the waters, against the sand and the grey horizon to plead. ‘Give me a chance, toss my a bone, I’ve wasted away for long enough and I have nothing in my life except for the sea and the burns on my arms. I have not asked for much, and I have dreamt of little but this moment. I have not shed a tear hitherto this moment in time where I have ended up giving my all. I am sick and lonely, grant me a new hope.’ And as he knelt, with his rickety bones vulnerable to the cold wind, he began to cry out of passion and despair. In its blissful candour, the sea gave back naught but saltwater and driftwood. The old man sat with his head bowed down. Although the sea had looked upon him with pity, its form venturing to ensconce the man, it stayed passionless, giving the only solace it could ever hope to give him.