The Kiss of Poseidon
Ballad of the Third Coast
Once again the water rises,
Drowning my very soul.
Just yesterday
Lighting struck the solar iris,
Knowing not what today would hold.
As the thunder roll
And the lighting burn
Water, pooled,
Takes a turn.
Oh,
Heavier, heavier,
Come down on we.
Waver, waver,
No time to breathe.
Savior, Savior,
Where could you be,
As our city, again, is washed to the sea?
Tepid now to what once excited;
Memories, moments,
Bereave what enticed such
Remedy, Romance,
When the clouds came full rush.
What inspired such love,
Now inspires a hush.
We
Float by the fires
Spreading, inspired
By that which cannot coexist.
No Monks, friars,
No weapons, empires;
Only electrified elements persist.
So
Heavier, heavier,
Come down on we.
Waver, waver,
No time to breathe.
Savior, Savior,
Where could you be,
As our city, again, is washed to the sea?
Look down a barrel,
The funnel gives reach.
The ground is pummeled,
Laws of gravity, breached.
Lifting, rising,
Flying free
For fleeting seconds,
before depravity.
These flashes and wind,
Rain more enemy than friend,
As I thought once when I was young.
When will it end?
So deep, we blend in
with
Debris and marsh; lowest rung.
Drowning, Drowning, oh,
Heavier, heavier,
Come down on we.
Waver, waver,
No time to breathe.
Savior, Savior,
Where could you be,
As our city, again, is washed to the sea?
About the Creator
Will Sheffield
Poet, pianist, performer, political enthusiast; always searching for the right profession to support my passions. Work hard, play harder; but don't forget to take notes about it along the way.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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