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Sinking Ships

My heart stopped for one-thousandth of a second
resuscitated by chimes of St Thomas Church,
peeling hope from eternal tides.

We became the rainfall
sluicing across bows of burly tankers
lost in the Atlantic dark.

We wrote our names in sand
holding still in our time,
before clocks crashed from harbour gallows.

Building ships, forever,
or so it seems,
when we should be diving for pearls.
Written by Strangeways_Rob
Published
Author's Note
Last of the maudlin meanderings. Placed bits of my heart on the sea-wall on Sunday for winter's wild tides to journey them.

In 2025, have passport, will travel. Should you have South American shoe-shuffles, you may see me in Argentina or Chile writing postcards to ghosts.
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