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August 27, 2014


I owe you nothing.
That can be counted.
Will leave you nothing.
That can be sold.
Except, I suppose, character.
But that’s not something.
That you buy down the docks.
It’s earned.
Smashing over.
And again on the rocks.
When you can’t pull back the sheets.
How’d you pull up your socks?
That sinking feeling.
Of time and youth and life receding.
Each cloud on the horizon breeding.
Rain for the ground for the sea for the cloud.
And again.
And around.
Why do you not realise.
That your feelings are fleeting?
Like a snake.
Blissfully ignorant.
Of the tail that it’s eating.
Like the sea swallowing up.
All these tears that I’ve cried.
I owe you no explanation.
Couldn’t leave one if I tried.


From → Poetry

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