The Mast
I am a sailor. The ship hurls me about.
Powder kegs,
black and leaden, leak.
Ash waters swirl
beneath my feet.
The killer whale turns.
Wrap me, drunken canvas,
cold wet breath.
Pin me like a mother.
A vice of timber,
a religion,
our last communion.
We are closer now,
together at last.
Look at the way the blue consumes us all.
Powder kegs,
black and leaden, leak.
Ash waters swirl
beneath my feet.
The killer whale turns.
Wrap me, drunken canvas,
cold wet breath.
Pin me like a mother.
A vice of timber,
a religion,
our last communion.
We are closer now,
together at last.
Look at the way the blue consumes us all.
Mother
Flooded fields of apathy,
grow bacteria—
strong enough to kill the wild horses.
Why is she so angry?
What fills her tank of rage?
Can’t she see the pressure gauge is red-lining?
Doesn’t she hear the valves whining and hissing?
The rest of us curl up in horror,
knowing she’s about to burst.
grow bacteria—
strong enough to kill the wild horses.
Why is she so angry?
What fills her tank of rage?
Can’t she see the pressure gauge is red-lining?
Doesn’t she hear the valves whining and hissing?
The rest of us curl up in horror,
knowing she’s about to burst.
Sam Kilkenny is a nonfiction writer and poet. He lives in Atlanta, GA where he writes everyday. He is currently writing with C.W. Bryan at poetryispretentious.com. When he isn’t writing, you can find him biking around Atlanta like a madman.
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