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Shanty

The islands are small
here,
bruising's  
elevated,    
rouging on the abdomen,
dentures crested, unforgiven,  
breathing slammed.    
A great divide's now gaping  
drapes of you unsafely stationed
about my brains.    
I thought I'd made a vessel,  
genuine,
didn't account
for a leak,
anchor
unravelling,
Islands, remorseless,
no longer plenti  
ful.
I imagine myself sinking,  
on top,
cargo weighted
more than I,  
flooded guts,
microplastics -
book myself into a
big city clinic  
with no means to arrive,
drag up on baron sand banks  
and sing
those bastard songs of old.
ImperfectedStone
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
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