Eight Stone Three, Version II
I sketched your face in
the midst of a bleached sky
touching the cool wet sands
barefoot and loaded tonight.
A great inhale lights the pipe
wait for a reddish moon to rise
ballerinas twirl on the sea wall
faces expressionless; eyes cold.
I feel my raspy breath drift away
in foggy wispy ocean tendrils
guided by ghosts of privateers,
their rapiers hang off leather belts.
Swale grass on sand dunes quiver
untied laces fly about in the wind.
First, you’re here; then gone away;
you’re bright; then dull and dying.
The fading gray light disappearing,
as tears are lost in a driving rain,
wretched days full of fears are here
now sinking into the charcoal sketch
a note in crayon sits upon the dash
justification is simply a lost wasted life
emergence from the closet to a pillory;
eight stone three melting into the sea.
If you liked Eight Stone Three, go visit Ken Allan Dronsfield‘s website at A Revenant Poet or check out his previous entries at The Ugly Writers: