The water cries
Through bloated hands
Outstretched to catch
The slamming doors
That one by one
Undo their hold.
They, the nailed souls
Pummelled and bent
Now held below
Like corroded pins
In ocean’s spill
Bleached and sunk
And stilled in fall.
Waiting for the hammer
and its weary call.
Poets are weirdos.
They can’t help it, they just are.
Not for them the bravura strange
Of painters, or stucco bloom
Of eccentric musicians.
Poets are just plain …odd.
Look at them - shuffling thoughts
On scribbled worry scraps
Memento pointing treasure maps
Of found ideas on midnight notes
Squirreled safely away like eels
In the pockets of a hobo.
And then, they speak!
I must admit
to an obsession.
24 feels like 72 without you.
You are illuminated gold
for unkempt souls like I.
I’m here, every night.
Hunched like a fortress archer
stooping down to spy
on the blinking hearts
that stumble by.
You are skeleton wish-skin,
like crisp white parchment
blown through the stillness
of damp alleyways waiting
for elegant replies.
I don’t wish to tear
the twin suede binds you bring;
habit and urge - the addictions
you have become. I love you,
in another guise.