Driftwood
This old heart of mine meets quitting time,
cringes in a cage with no way out;
concurrence with occurrence of spurs jabbed in the muscle,
bright pain shines a sacristy of black light shreds.
What arrives will go in the undertow
of variable waves of loathing and fear;
currents grasp feet below the tidal ripples,
dragging downward to fathomless oyster beds.
Driftwood tossed, located, lost and drowned
beneath sebaceous trauma of the reef;
sails disease on seven seas of distalgesia,
until the shore recedes, no knowing of where she lies.
Whoever may weep as I take sleep forever,
and would their tears bleed sentiment sincerity?
Who goes there, who alone would care in reality
for driftwood drifting slowly from their eyes?
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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