Grasp at lockets of
Pretending it’s the past.
Try to remember the waves,
The salt air,
Hoist up your memories with fishnets,
And gut them so they become something
So they become
A harbour in which we can settle.
In thought or in fact
Let’s return to black and white
And walk along beaches
Scattered with empty benches,
Empty conversation and
Let’s wind up the gramophone
So songs become a curse in our minds.
We sail on oceans that do not exist.
One Comment Add yours
Very descriptive, like the way it makes you feel…..like you’re at the coast. Nice x
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