Hull hand-
Rubbed
Hand polished

Too slick still
For slow barnacle.

Bright brass-
Her bell already
Salvaged (stolen)

Before she clapped
A sound

Underbelly of seabirds
As
White blue grey sky
Scrolls above.

Feathers frolic on
Thermal waves
Unknown to eyes
On Southend pier.

Rusting legs step out to
Sea
Swell and cresting small
Over silted bed

Being with you
Is like having a staring contest
With the sun
No matter what
I always lose

there are roses growing
from my hands
My doubt the seeds
Begging them to grow

There are roses climbing
up my arms
digging in my skin
but i am numb
to their thorns and beauty

There are roses growing
in my lungs
bloodied petals
filling my throat
and falling from my lips

Tears are sliding
down my cheeks
I've had enough
I am to weak