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The Sea Rushes In
He sleeps in thunderstorms,
temporarily cocooned
from a fathomless death.
When his ship sunk
he had swam away from a life
to an island in his mind.
He sways hammock-less
as a crashing gale
rolls him inside an acoustic guitar,
a sea-going instrument
that can be plucked
only with lovelorn fingers.
She was a masthead once
one that led him astray.
Red grapes and red lips
had beguiled him.
He ropes her thick black hair
around his waist; makes ready
to tie himself to a rocking mast.
The night sky keeps him searching
in the dark heart of any storm;
a dream ship surfacing once more
and he knowing
he is the sea itself
rushing inward.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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