The Docks
somewhere in this
empty shell is
a mind. a
mind, a soul,
maybe a heartbeat.
slipcover of a co
calloused and weak
excuse of skin,
clammy and wet
life the great
pacific. and you
left me, at
a time that
cannot be recorded
on a metric
or a modern scale
such as 3:30 am
or 18:25 pm.
but you're none
the special because
everyone leaves me
behind in waves
of chopped chilly
water burning with
a great smell
of sweet seawater.
the pillars are
soaked with algae
and dissapointment. and
i'm the last
sailor on this
wretched, broken journey.