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kyle-kulsethPoems
Plot a course through downtown doors then drift along the concrete shores of asphalt oceans navigated           under stars           imitating      broken curbside glass--      over crunching gravel miles           measured in half-hours and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths           and squinting, midnight eyes... Counted out the blocks, counted steps and concrete squares by metered three-four thoughts dancing across      reflected skylines, just behind the eyes. Each step's a held breath, each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper, each set of shoulders, a hanger for...                                         coats are homes                                              for hands                                     rolling up in pockets fishing for some solid anchor, sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.                                    *** * *** Listing hard, adrift for years      water-logged and pocked--                     no anchor-- shredded sails and leaning masts                     tell stories                   of deck fires:                    leaping rats,              and charred strakes Clear deck,                empty hold,                               abandoned helm.                      this coat's Atlantic fog. Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch           down and across like lines on faces aged by the frost           on midnight walks. Strike the colors, mate... Admit you're lost.
0
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
Ghost Ship
Plot a course through downtown doors then drift along the concrete shores of asphalt oceans navigated           under stars           imitating      broken curbside glass--      over crunching gravel miles           measured in half-hours and meted out in heavy, fogging breaths           and squinting, midnight eyes... Counted out the blocks, counted steps and concrete squares by metered three-four thoughts dancing across      reflected skylines, just behind the eyes. Each step's a held breath, each footfall a prayer on crumpled paper, each set of shoulders, a hanger for...                                         coats are homes                                              for hands                                     rolling up in pockets fishing for some solid anchor, sinking into years of walks and silent words like these.                                    *** * *** Listing hard, adrift for years      water-logged and pocked--                     no anchor-- shredded sails and leaning masts                     tell stories                   of deck fires:                    leaping rats,              and charred strakes Clear deck,                empty hold,                               abandoned helm.                      this coat's Atlantic fog. Frayed rigging like cobwebs stretch           down and across like lines on faces aged by the frost           on midnight walks. Strike the colors, mate... Admit you're lost.
Was worried this one might seem a little...overbearing? Melodramatic? I kinda like how it turned out, though.
#solitude#ghost#street#sea#isolation#nautical#city#ship#walk#sail
kyle-kulseth
Written by
kyle-kulseth
M/American
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 12:41 PM UTC
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