Waxing and Waning

Low tide and I am thankful as I awaken to the sound of the breakers, on my seventh day. Only my head, you see, remains above ground. I sink a little lower by each sunrise. I try to loosen myself from my incarceration, spitting out grains of sand, tasting only defeat. I know that before noon my captors will come and nourish me with a mouthful and with water. Just enough. It's a game, you see. It doesn't matter what I tell them. It doesn't matter how much I plead. They just laugh, like every day.

That twilight I watch the moonrise. Just a sliver of crescent, waxing from the New it was just yesterday evening.

I'm far enough in to have survived the week, but I worry about the rising moon I see each night. As so it waxes, so my life shortens. At some point it will be full and my life over. Then it will begin to wane and the waters recede, to reveal what's left of me. The Moon stays the same but I will change. The tide will come in then out, but I will stay.