It was never how the sea bit at my ankles
or how the kelp of its fingers were trying vain
pulling me down that made me see how like angels
are the stones in my pockets and how pain
that would be left in the sand for my lover to gather
wouldn’t bring solace to me once I am dead,
I turned my back to the sea, lonely cadavered
in sorrow with brine in my hair to the bed
where my lady was waning, moon-mocked in silver
as fake as her promises given at noon,
and I slept in the cold of the death I had pilfered
from the hunger of waves a Monday in June.
A poem for MindloveMisery’s prompt Mad About Metaphor . I love metaphors and tried to use one and mix in a few others.
Also linking to Tuesday Platform at toads.