Poseidon at Play
Every breath is shallow and stale, and fails
to fill the twin sails of my chest. And so the craft
sinks to the bottom, pieces and parts, broken
and bruised, shattered on the rock of empty emotion.
Written on the stone: Despair, and None Spared.
But none are there to read or recount the story
of the author at play, the god of the deep.
The sky never falls; it is always torn down. And the
waves consume every piece. A frenzy in the freezing
waters trying to dodge the stars splashing and parting
the waves. Capsized vessels disappear in the wrath of
the white crashing, and dashed to pieces, those great
flagships, once cutting through the unknown seas
showing the way, now only seen by the eyes of the deep.
I swam up one wall and down another. I drank
the salt of a thousand dissolved pillars, and I
could taste sugar in the sweet tossing waves
and I waited my turn to wrestle the god. Clinging to
the bodies of work of those who drowned before
me and breathed an air I have yet to breath or hallow,
I saw the last star fall and swallowed by the deep.
The sky was unlit and dark, the water on fire with the
still burning light of countless stars which now formed
the floor of the ocean like sand on the sea shore.
The god rose to stand on the calm, quiet, still water,
and walked among the lost. None were spared.
None save me. The air was slow and thick, and I
took very little and gave even less, hiding in the deep.
Every breath is shallow and stale, and fails
to fill the twin sails of my chest. And so the craft
sinks to the bottom, pieces and parts, broken
and bruised, shattered on the rock of empty emotion.
Written on the stone: Despair, and None Spared.
But none are there to read or recount the story
of the author at play, the god of the deep.
None save me.
And I am Poseidon.
to fill the twin sails of my chest. And so the craft
sinks to the bottom, pieces and parts, broken
and bruised, shattered on the rock of empty emotion.
Written on the stone: Despair, and None Spared.
But none are there to read or recount the story
of the author at play, the god of the deep.
The sky never falls; it is always torn down. And the
waves consume every piece. A frenzy in the freezing
waters trying to dodge the stars splashing and parting
the waves. Capsized vessels disappear in the wrath of
the white crashing, and dashed to pieces, those great
flagships, once cutting through the unknown seas
showing the way, now only seen by the eyes of the deep.
I swam up one wall and down another. I drank
the salt of a thousand dissolved pillars, and I
could taste sugar in the sweet tossing waves
and I waited my turn to wrestle the god. Clinging to
the bodies of work of those who drowned before
me and breathed an air I have yet to breath or hallow,
I saw the last star fall and swallowed by the deep.
The sky was unlit and dark, the water on fire with the
still burning light of countless stars which now formed
the floor of the ocean like sand on the sea shore.
The god rose to stand on the calm, quiet, still water,
and walked among the lost. None were spared.
None save me. The air was slow and thick, and I
took very little and gave even less, hiding in the deep.
Every breath is shallow and stale, and fails
to fill the twin sails of my chest. And so the craft
sinks to the bottom, pieces and parts, broken
and bruised, shattered on the rock of empty emotion.
Written on the stone: Despair, and None Spared.
But none are there to read or recount the story
of the author at play, the god of the deep.
None save me.
And I am Poseidon.
posted by twodollarshoe at 7:49 PM
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