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.


Malek Montag,


August 2016


Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15

Picture Credit:


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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