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unnamedciPoems
I am sat In a tight picnic circle Laid on the grey sand I am a crusted seashell, I am the limpets which cling to my skin Like a sunken chest The waves and sea gulls call For each other and the cold In the distance. The swimmers. The Irish Sea and the Irish cold Whistling, The sea and the clouds You are the froth Flowing through my lungs like a white Feather fallen from the sky Silent And dry The rock's green hair swaying The wind strikes the eye Like a splash And decays with The grace of a coffin For me the reeds have born their fruit They stab the naked Skin, you are still Sleeping on your side In the tent You are still beautiful Within, soon the ***** will unfold And we shall embrace The sea and her sons
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Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC
Wet soles
I am sat In a tight picnic circle Laid on the grey sand I am a crusted seashell, I am the limpets which cling to my skin Like a sunken chest The waves and sea gulls call For each other and the cold In the distance. The swimmers. The Irish Sea and the Irish cold Whistling, The sea and the clouds You are the froth Flowing through my lungs like a white Feather fallen from the sky Silent And dry The rock's green hair swaying The wind strikes the eye Like a splash And decays with The grace of a coffin For me the reeds have born their fruit They stab the naked Skin, you are still Sleeping on your side In the tent You are still beautiful Within, soon the ***** will unfold And we shall embrace The sea and her sons
unnamedci
Written by
unnamedci
26/F
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 12:27 PM UTC
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