It’s been almost twenty years,
not a single word. Thoughts?
I guess you can’t miss
the things you’ve never known.
Hell is full
of demons in the shapes of men,
sons, brothers, husbands, fathers.
Another place lies
not far from there,
where shades take shape
of things you’ll never see.
Ghosts of lives you never got
to live, of things said,
or never said enough.
I’ve not got murderous hands,
nor the simplicity for violence;
it’s my thoughts that scare me.
Dead men sour the shores as waves
play at their feet. Bored, the water
will tug the stiffs into frothy sea,
spewing brine into foul air.
Ideas that once were
now lie at the mercy of burdening waves,
are carried down, deep into current,
to feed the mouths of bottom feeders
without pride nor dignity.
They will choke to death on crowns
of yesterday, rotten meat of men
still digging at the bottom of the sea.