skellig michael, ireland in poetry

on a little island
driven there by shame and failure
ten million burning suns from nowhere
beautiful but empty
ruins whose purpose no one can remember
desolate and lonely
so blue and so green and
no one there to share the colours with
hanging out in ragged clothes
stewing on his scars
lost amoung the stars
waiting for someone to reach
across the self-recrimination and the sea
the humiliation and the opposite of sand
to reach out their hand
and hand him back
his potential