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 eyesTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
