Shipwrecks
My people are shipwrecks,
they have faces long crushed by tanks.
Many are landlocked,
a few were too oceanic
they got broken by dry-docked hearts.
Most were blitzed by smokescreens.
The trees and industrial units
are so tightly packed,
that snow can only fall
in thin shafts of squeezed daylight.
You can get silenced or dead in those
cold spotlights.
At the edge of the cut lumber
yearlong tractors unearth muskets
discarded by the few who held fast
only to retreat to boneyards and sweatshops.
The unauthorized have been
censured and cancelled,
mute now the people hide their souls.
We took a road much travelled,
a stream of masked riders escaping,
it was a mad rush
to keep up with the fear.
When we got there, we could only
mill about like sheep behind the razor wire.
My people peer form the margins,
form tented tribes native to junkyards and jetsam.
They are washed up as shoreless wreckage,
gaunt reminders of all things forgotten.
They dream of that slim peninsular.
They dream-walk to the end of its long pier,
grasp the last flimsy rail
that keeps them safe from
the past and the future.
An ancient cycle of storms pounds them,
pounds that rickety quay
as it finger-points to nowhere.
The sea slaps their faces,
until they cannot stand, but must sit
inside their open mouths,
be just funnels
for the unrelenting winds
of dark times.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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