Wednesday, 10 February 2016

Late Night Reading

The glass of sea in my right hand
obfuscated the light that the window
did not confiscate. These black bleedings
of thoughts that time had spat out.
The bowling blues of green sea-hues
turned beneath the waves of sheets.
The Captain called for his ail,
as I drank my fill of refuge and seaweed.

No comments:

Post a Comment