The Docks

somewhere in this

empty shell is

a mind. a

mind, a soul,

maybe a heartbeat.

slipcover of a co

calloused and weak

excuse of skin,

clammy and wet

life the great

pacific. and you

left me, at

a time that

cannot be recorded

on a metric

or a modern scale

such as 3:30 am

or 18:25 pm.

but you're none

the special because

everyone leaves me

behind in waves

of chopped chilly

water burning with

a great smell

of sweet seawater.

the pillars are

soaked with algae

and dissapointment. and

i'm the last

sailor on this

wretched, broken journey.