Muse |
Muse |
The black water, pooled, like a pot of ink
Of unwritten words; a pit of dark reflections Of the night sky in broken glass; steely, galvanised by the stars; A distant memory of past destruction. A stream of blood crying out All those lost at sea, in a forgotten time in an unknown future. Fragmented and shattered, The surface shifts in shards, like tectonic plates in the deep. Broken waves lapping on and over, On and over again, as purple lips lick the sides, Tasting the frozen dirt, which reveals white jagged teeth; water crystals far from ecstasy. The black waters, dull and lulled into quiet, Spills its secrets to the rocks, Splashed and dashed to the still air, Spray falls as ice among the ruined, Landing among the shipwrecked and gnarled branches of old; Twisted in their wisdom of such bygones. Down dribbles the black water, Down the narrow shallows, unable to breath Or be any more than passing strangers to the passing Stranger crossing over and away from harm; Calm in ignorance of the black water beneath. Its presence not known nor minded; Silent and ever-flowing, ever-growing in momentum To an unknown end. Ebbing into bends, ebbing in two As the lip splits, with a guttural scream From a nearby drain, draining out its story To find a new end downstream. The split lip bleeds and tears a new path, Alone on the road to a dead end. The black water moves on, leaving the dead behind, Rolling onwards, curling its head in and under, In and under again, gliding along its own glazed impressions, Expressions of the cold unspoken. The sky cries over the black water, Dripping its misery into the shallows. Vanity and dignity but a whispered question. Swollen with sorrow, the black water groans; Bloated, it sinks deeper and into the river. Lost to another force.
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AuthorSamantha is a doctoral researcher researching the power of figurative language in advertising, social media, and mobile technology. Copyright © 2022
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