The deeper you stare into
The flotsam,
The clearer our origin stories
Become:
We are shipwrecks.
Islands
Bro-
ken Like bread and
Doused in
Salted wines.
We are cupbearers,
Slaves
With rusted chains
That dangle
Loosely
From our ankles,
Shrouding our skin from the harsh
Freedom
Sun offers.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
The deeper you stare into
The flotsam,
The clearer our origin stories
Become:
We are shipwrecks.
Islands
Bro-
ken Like bread and
Doused in
Salted wines.
We are cupbearers,
Slaves
With rusted chains
That dangle
Loosely
From our ankles,
Shrouding our skin from the harsh
Freedom
Sun offers.
From a harbour, not a beach. More your story than mine.
