Tundra - Desert - Mirage

The red-throat trawled me to a shanghaied shore then left me raw in split-sedated state. A sense of morning meant the lamp lit late and when I dream I taste a little gore, but it was peaceful there, upon that shore. And how I prayed it would disintegrate. And for the waters to evaporate. And for the dark to dredge the ocean floor. And all then did. No one should be allowed such icy fun: to hear whimpering whales aware of demise, crushing coral, proud no longer. But then the fisherman’s sails at first glint of sun. The hawk circling back to this, my tundra, that the desert fails.