Why weary now, friend, the white bell
Rings. If we breathe in hush, the stale
Corpse won’t let out the scream, the
Dreams won’t feel like birds, sea shells-
The old, foamy sea when muffled the cry
Of help. And hid in a petty man’s sty,
When the storm raged, breaking the sills
Of the bay, making the brave ships fly.
Home is a harbour, in a coherent play
Of love; torn, silly ships, in which stay
Till the storm dies, skull-crossbones
Adorns the navy blue sky. A pirate bay.
There by the bay,
Saw the ocean pouncing –
I would stay.
Late in the bed,
Skin grew pulpy
Took me to cold.
‘Dry by the sun’,
I kept stuttering,
‘If the tides turn.’