I dream of the last ocean
and all its sleepless motion
of ports and steady seagulls
a seascape bluish and peaceful
he was the lone Mariner
I was the intrepid prisoner
sore hands promise-bound—
a hoard that's never found
away the ships bore thee
so far no eyes could see
the treasure that the sea took
with it my heart the sails forsook
the depths rudely robbed
what little life in me throbbed
if by chance were you returned
I wait by the cliff unmoved
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoetryI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
