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CROATOAN

Whispers in my ear; The dead wish to live again. A soft strumming of worn out strings; The dead hope to rise. From coffin nails to slow exhales, the living wane and slowly fail. I tie my knots, I lift my sails; The dead setting off again. From Roanoke to Jamestown’s walls, the sea consumes another soul; And I’m settling down on this foreign shore without a line to cast back home; The living dream of growing old; The dead remain, trapped in rotting bones.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015




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