The mist-wraith wound

Mud-like, her keel struck
A bottom, echoing sound from the sea street,
Tacking a sail in the crook of night;
Wood built from a yard, she heard her timbers
Ignite in a listing, twisted canvas dwindling,
Displaced into a wet blue color.

Crew’s voices echoing from a wind wall
Into the darkness, dwarfed figures
Shoulder high, dwindling into a salt material
Of thoughts, thinning into nothing;
Fringe of a wound to a knot, thin to a nothing.

Wakened heads of waves ignore, incessant
To a drowning; the ship’s drowsed,
Displaced in a sinking. Far from a cloud land,
A lifeboat in a hurried row; goodbye to
A wooden grail, a pirateer with black bones.

Sea trailed to a port, hung by a yardarm,
Footsoles of ghosts displaced,
Cusped towards another sail; knelt down
In a broadside. Loomed absolute in the sway
Of the dreaming skull.

Copyright © 04/21/18 lance sheridan®

The mist-wraith wound

 

 

 

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