The salty birth
delivers me to the island
I cackle back
at the Siren,
skinned in her
opaque shingles,
her library of gills,
filtering memories,
we do not catalogue,
into the stern
That fat albatross,
island claiming tyrant
who blistered off course
when we set sail
upon the tremors of the tigress
battling up current
through
the sodden silt
of dams,
pricked up like towering monuments
antiquated
as the roman aqueducts
shadows, to dial in the sun
that frothing milk maid
flung me over water
like a skipping rock
after three skips
the ripple of burden
swallows
and disintegrates
leaving only grains of sand
glass eyeballs
reflecting lost worlds
About the Creator
Bride of Sound
I explore themes of altered perception, distortion of the body, and dysfunctional romance. Sometimes chaotic, attempting to control.
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