Wednesday, January 29


graceful veins, stained glass panes
highways of blood long spent
silvery tatting dusting matting 
of locks in strange ways bent
he kisses the dead, the salted lips
a porcelain figure on the sand
foamy flowers bloom for hours 
round the upturned, open hands
moonlit ribbons weave silently 
from stars emitting darkish light
crustaceans clack their paper claws
a shellfish garden unfolds at night
peroxide stain the reward he gains
as crackled light spiderwebs the sky
alone sits he, in the murmuring air
unfair, thinks he, that this must die
loves me, loves me not--
she was his last forget-me-not
penned the words that ended here
on shores where go to die vain thoughts
with tentacles cling those murky things
to rocky wave-crashed shores
just so does he, with anchored heart
return to the deep sea floor

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