Slow Decay

The words always turned bitter
stained with verdigris
dull and stolen
oxidising gently in the air.

I cast these brassy bracelets
finally to the sea
an offering of loss and leaving
deadened shores behind.

There’s a blank space
a break in the thudding
the slowing of my horrid
ropey, fearful heart.

I hold flakes in my hands
of soft, white, dead salt.
My past peace
My weary eyes.