More potting.

Yet another stupid poem. Wrote it as it came, so it probably doesn’t make sense, but since when that did that matter.

Green-foamed fingers slither down lungs

no voices heard, no songs to be sung

down in watery chambers, the places I hide

there I found no truth, it is there that I died

Tied and bound by opal ropes of sea

sunken, rotted, wrecked beneath the quay

eyes of salt and dripping brine

watch breakers bleed upon the shore line

Red silted mouth and skull taut skin

a scattered scream against the din

torrents of tide a monument to show

under silver waves I lie, into the water I flow

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