sunset bows to the curtain of night,
humbled by a vain blanket of stars.
a lunar spell entrances the sea,
as still air mocks my sails and scars.
one last night in this casket adrift,
upon currents unkind and too far from home.
salt in my nose,
damp in my shoes,
surrounded by life,
yet forever alone.
bring us the last thimble of wine.
we'll drink up a toast to our bitter defeat.
raising our chalice to the vulture's prey.
to sweeten our meat for the carrion feast.
©A.Byers2007
2007-06-02
18:49:48
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12 answers
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asked by
Anonymous
in
Arts & Humanities
➔ Poetry