Echoes reverberate in a blood-dark sky shimmering
among silver stars stained crimson by doubt
and hate and the liquid fusion of a full moon,
of sound sent soaring through the imagination
of children lost among the waves of washed-up politics.
The voice of harmony stalks the swaying sails
of harbour-bound hands waiting for
the starting pistol of happiness.
Gone is the realm of the octopus occupying
the briny depths of a lonely man’s heart,
for the long shank and severing blade of age
brings freedom from social mores.
Purple are the doors locked fast against love
in the older man’s breast. Vacant is the sign above
the woman’s door who will not open herself
to the wounded known. Ken is the name
long forgotten among the progeny of empty lives
adrift in the sail-less vessels upon a lake of troubles.
Blessed be the hand that finds their home
amid our bracken dark brackish sea.
Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15