The fisherman throws his nets at night
and when he eats,
he sits alone.
Drowning in what could've been.
On some nights when he just can't seem to find the surface
he goes to the rocks,
and reads to the fish.
He reads them poems.
Poems of mice,
and poems of men.
He reads about the human condition,
about the question and quiver and shiver of sleep.
Book in one hand, flashlight in other,
hands clutching poems like they were his lover
too afraid to let her out into the soft glow of the electric night
yet he was the one to show her the world.
"I will never hold her like that again" the fisherman sighs.
Book in one hand, flashlight in other,
he tells these poems of the human condition.
Of the sun and the moon,
of the stars in the night.
The rains falls, the clouds gather,
the waves sway, and the fish
sleep.
Awake,
asleep.
Awake,
asleep.
To the gentle rocking of the tides.
The fisherman raises his nets that night
and to his dismay,
catches nothing.
It's alright.
All this fisherman has left to catch is the electricity dancing across the sky
the electricity he lost?
He never found again.
The waves sway and the fisherman empties himself of such tales.
Book in one hand, flashlight in other,
he reads to the fish of things they will never see:
About flowers and grass,
and the clouds in the sky
as the rhythm of the rain keeps time.
YOU ARE READING
Half English / Half Cynicism
Poesíathis is a collection of my original poetry, and I hope you enjoy. I explore the themes of belonging, LGBTQ+, longing, and loss. Thank you for giving my writing a read and a chance :).
