at the skin of night
on the ocean floor
he could feel remorse
no more
for with what
he did not see
a siren bumped
unto he
he was left frazzled
and left to return his leg
that was mangled
into the sand
which he dug
with bare hands
YOU ARE READING
poetry
Poesíamy thoughts are twisted and your's are too it comes from the sidelines and up and down like a pretzel maybe a crossaint
