deepundergroundpoetry.com

Culmination


There's nothing owed;
an offshoot hails
this alternate mainsail  
draped in linen canvas;
a gossamer net pregnant with gales  
 
Brine is brusque on the tender of us  
salt seasons our seasons  
Eyelashes fresh with sunlight to catch
We brim with psyches stocked  
to the brim
 
And what is our scent?
Fragrant years flung
hearts strung out - dried daylong
on the end of a prong  
 
Lifelines swaying from skies
signs of living  
as we die
 
Hieroglyphs hung too high

 
Written by AtoMikbomb
Published | Edited 7th Jul 2018
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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