Pale

Clouds of inconvenience drift over into view.
Casting shadows that scream a doubt.
Pips of truth that stick in-between our teeth.
The cool water of correction I offer.
Flows over you like mercury.
You glisten with your own metallic brilliance.
Pale gold that detoxes the night air.
Sucking out the flow of the moon.
I speak too soon.
The waves follow the clouds and love pushes deep under.
As crests pummel the pallid skin that I long to kiss.
A sea sickness takes hold of my heart.
Turning my skin to cadaver colourations.
Love sick and racked by emotionally violent nausea.
My insides, turning, tumbling and freewheeling.
Pale like a moth.
Dead like the dawn.
Waiting, once more, for your decisions

08/03/202208/03/2022 by Mark Ryan Categories: death, sea, sickTags: art, colour, dead, gold, kiss, light, love, metalic, moon, pale, poem, Poetry, sea, waves 3 Comments