A curious haunt
disjoints my thought.
like a wet sock.
So I shroud myself in something warm
and familiar
like a memory
of a better time.


But this blanket
tangles and tightens,
strangles my limbs
with the recollection
of love once requited:
affection collected
and dangled from clothespins
to dry and be dressed with.


Brambled in questions,
I ponder:
Why is Time
allowed Passage
but never Port?
And should this
be accepted?

 I scramble towards the only solace
I've known:
the piracy of language
with which to fashion
an anguished verse.

And with an eyepatch
I half-weep
past islands traversed...


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allets's picture

Language Piracy

Awesome writing - near surreal in depth - love the vocabulary and the internal rhymes encountered so far ~ A