Donatien Moisdon


Atlantic


Suckle on rocky shore, beloved Atlantic,
bellow through ghostly fog at tipsy fishermen,
howl for hours on gorse and broom and heathered cliffs.

As for me, I giggle under your moist embrace
and I hate you, you scavenger of childhood dreams.

Whiffs of infinity, and all because of you,
had invaded my soul, fired my ambition.

With salty, chapped skin and with burning throat
I will, one day, show up, cold, naked and alone.

Eyes black with death, I will, in the brine of your sand,
press the grinning remains of my life and my skull.

Submitted: Thursday, January 09, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, April 08, 2014

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