FATHOMS

 

 

 

 

A wind in the water presses

to the surface;

currents turn circles in oceans.

 

The paths of the ancients push

dark waters aside as they

pull from lands, meeting in the center.

 

Bones rest deep in blue black

sandy depths.

The violets of eyes wilt, feeding

the hungry and quick.

Sunlight fails under the hold of fathoms.

 

Beneath a deep night moon

voices rise, releasing names and messages

on the surface; an orchestra of last words

from the altars below.

 

 

 

 

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