i speculate
and swim in my songs
of woe. i feel the fruit
of that worry
ripen deep in my stomach,
and those vivid lacerations
dance across my vision
like angels in snow.
i try not to think of that needle eye;
i can't foresee; nor seek those visions
of cool linoleum floors: my drying
sclera where the only touch is their gloved hands.
(26/03/2017)
YOU ARE READING
THE OCEAN
Poetry'In the old days at home the Neverland had always begun to look a little dark and threatening by bedtime. Then unexplored patches arose in it and spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts of prey was quite different now, and...
