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: