| |
Early morning, while rolling rather sideways,
remaining for a minute on your side,
I turn my back on starched, but lonely satin.
It was to be OUR cruise to Vanuatu.
I wander over, past the frantic pool,
and briefly merge into slow shuffleboard.
And then I dropp the bag of my identity
into the stormy waters of my distant past.
May it remain there, I do have no use
for narcissist shenanigans of one bewildered soul.
But here's to finely chiselled staghorns on my shell,
so free to seek and be devoured by any mantis.
Embracing hornytoads of anarchy and carnal wit.
To surf that channel does require no restrictions.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: identity, lonely, water
|
|
User Rating: |
|
8.9
/10
(7 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend