---

The raging fist of a midwinter tide

Had broken the jaws of Leviathan

She stood on the edges, embellished by seagulls

She was ignoring the waves and the water that sighed

Still the depth’s drip peels the scabs of her sands

One day she will scuttle the seabed with scythes

And seamen will sing the most mythical tale

Of a nameless grave at the ports of my eyes

Oh I have seen these treasures of yours

Oh how I’ve longed for the wine

Unto virgin shores I’ve been walked and misled

How had I screamed into most starless skies?

Back to the land where she stands I must go –

A reflection of all that I hide

With a looking glass

And a stare that asks

Nearby candles and lanterns or fluorescent sky

Where the spider weaves

And the autumn leaves

All of them sear into soars souring high

At the sewer garden

Where the writing burden

Bares more weight than the shoulders of Atlas himself

Tiny fingertips

Drumming one’s own hips

My tortured hand is aching for feelings I cannot describe

The ink is my blood, and words I am bleedin

Staining velvet gown for her funeral day

Glass casket – like waves

Will feed the dear algae

The ocean so jealous, yet she’s not afraid

One day she will scuttle the seabed with scythe

Oh sonnet of love, forgotten art so dismaying

I hail from the flagpole “Starvation and loss!

Come what may with the storms!”

Clinging hard at the table

The feather is drawing a soul I must find

A nameless grave at the ports of my eyes