Dead Men Deep. A poem.

Hulls of broken ships,
scattered like white noise.
The sea bed, as black
as a charcoal cellar.

It welcomes sailors
to their ends,
bloated corpses sleeping
in hammocks of crusted ribs,
drunk on briny, antique wine.

Coral wreaths
and sawdust mouths;
barnacles, the new tattoo
that marks the passage
from man to martyr.

Here among the starfish
and crustacean shells,
unworried by the weather,
seabed tales in whale song
punctuate their empty dreams.

8 thoughts on “Dead Men Deep. A poem.

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  1. That Photo is just like my dream But with a fishing dock with a Huge crown of people laughing while i fell backwards i woke up right after i have lost my sight the deeper i went the more voices fade away my sight was fading too but right after i lost my sight in my dream i woke up in tears I can relate to this in so many ways

    Liked by 1 person

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