Up there
where the small pines
grow but sparsely
last night
a large ghost ship
with a broken hull
and torn sails that blow in the wind
like strands of tangled blood red hair
crashed into the crest of a hill
and lies there now
jagged and worn
under the morning sky
bleak and dark
under brewing storm clouds.
Naval forces
pirate flagged cargo
for personal needs
and yet are hijacked themselves
out in the west seas
where the waters tug and pull
everyone
under.
– matt at shadow of iris
murmurs and shrapnel xxvii
[This poem was inspired by the work of Esao Andrews.]
